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0

BETH WOODBURN

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BETH WOODBURN.

BY

MAUD PETITT.

TORONTO:

WILLIAM HRICGS,

29-33 Richmond Street West.

Montreal: C. W. COATFS. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS.

1897.

PETrrr^ M

Enterrd according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety Be ven, by Wioliam Brioos, at the
Department of Agriculture.

in the year one
I Bkioom, at the

Co /Rs ^otbcr

THIS MY FIRST BOOK

IS LOVINGLY

DEDICATED.

r

f i.

CONTENTS.

ClIAPTKK I. TAOK

Ik'tli at KiglitotMi . 9

(.'llAI'TKK II.

A Dirain <*f Life 21

ClIAI'TKK III.
Whillier, IVtli? [\0

Chai'TKR IV.
Millie 42

ClIAI'TKR V.

" For I Love You, H.'tir' 47

ClIAPTKR VI.

Varsity Ja

ClIAITER VII.

KikUvI 64

Chaptkr VIII.
The Ht'avenly ('aiiaaii 78

ClIAPTKR IX.
Varsity Again 95

(.'HAI'TKR .\.
Death . . ." II3

Chaptkr XI.
'-♦ ve 124

Chapter XII.
Farewell I37

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BliTII WOODBURN.

CHAPTKH T.

BETH AT EIGHTEEN.

}

In the ^oo<l old county of Norfolk, close to
the shore of Luke Erie, lieH the pretty vilhii^e of
Briarstield. A villa<^e I call it, thouj^h in truth
it has now advanced almost to the size and
dij^nit}'^ of a town. Here, on the brow of the
hill to the north of the village (rather a retired
.spot, one would say, for so busy a man), at the
time of which my story treats, stood the resi-
dence of Dr. Woodburn.

It was a long, old-fashioned rougl«-cast house
facing the east, with great wide wintiows on
each side of the door and a veranda all the
way across the front. The big lawn was (juite
uneven, and broken here and there by birch
trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes.

Ii.'i!

10

BETH WOODBUIIN.

I ;'

i

all in bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-
like old place. The view to the south show^ed,
over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue
of Lake Erie outlined against the sky, while to
the north stretched the open, undulating country
so often seen in Western Ontario.

One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's
only daughter, was lounging in an attitude more
careless than graceful under a birch tree. She,
her father and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper —
familiarly known as Aunt Prudence — formed
the whole household. Beth was a little above
the average height, a girlish figure, with a trifle
of that awkvv^ardness one sometimes meets in an
immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what most
people would call pretty, but still having a fair
share of beauty. Her features were, perhaps, a
little too strongly outlined, but the brow was
fair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark
hair was drawn back in a pleasing way. But
her eyes — those earnest, grey eyes — were the
most impressive of all in her unusually impres-
sive face. They were such searching eyes, as
tliough she had stood on the brink scanning the
very Infinite, and yet with a certain baffled
look in them as of one who had gazed far out,
but failed to pierce the gloom — a beaten, longing
look. But a careless observer might have dwelt

liKTH AT EKJHTEEX.

11

longer on the affectionate expression about her
lips — a half-childish, half- womanly tenderness.
Beth was in one of her dreamy moods that
afternoon. She was <^azing away towards tlie
north, her favorite view. She sometimes said
it was prettier than the lake vien. The hill on
which their house stood sloped abruptly down,
and a meadow, pink with clover, stretched far
away to rise again in a smaller hill skirted with
a bluish line of pines. There was a single cot-
tage on the opposite side of the meadow, with
white blinds and a row of sun-flowers along the
wall ; but Beth was not absorbed in the view,
and gave no heed to the book beside her. She
was dreaming. She had just been reading the
life of CJeorge Eliot, her favorite author, and the
book lay open at her picture. She had begun
to love George Eliot like a personal friend ; she
was her ideal, her model, for Beth had some
repute as a literary character in Briarsfield.
Not a teacher in the village school but had
marked her strong literary powers, and she was
not at all slow to believe all the hopeful compli-
ments paid her. From a child her stories had
lilled columns in the Briarsfield Echo, and now
she was eighteen she told herself sin? was ready
to reach out into the great literary worW- a
nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would bo

12

BETH woonnrRN.

famous — Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfiold. She
was sure of it. She would write novels ; oh,
such grand novels ! She would drink from the
very depths of nature and human life. The
stars, the daisies, sunsets, rippling waters, love
and sorrow, and all the infinite chords that
vibrate in the human soul — she would weave
them all with warp of gold. Oh, the world
would see what was in her soul ! She would be
the bright particular star of Canadian literature :
and then wealth would How in, too, and she
would tix up the old home. Dear old " daddy "
should retire and have everything he wanted :
and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days, wouldn't
mind moving " the trash," as she called her
manuscripts. Daddy wouldn't make her go to
bed at ten o'clock then ; she would write all
night if she choose ; she would have a little
room on purpose, and visitors at Briarstield
would pass by the old rough-cast house and
point it out as Beth Woodburn's home, and —
well, this is enough for a sample of Beth's day-
dreams. They v;ere very exaggerated, perhaps,
and a little selfish, too ; but she was not a fully-
developed woman yet, and the years were to bring
sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of
genius, but genius takes years to unfold itself.
Then a soft expression crossed the face of the

J{l"ni AT KKiHTEKN.

13

(Irraiiior. SIh' leaned l)}ick, licr cyos closed and
a li«^li( smile played about her lips. She was
thinkinj; ol* one who had encouraged her so
earnestly — a tall, slender youth, with light
curlv hair, hlue eves and a fair, almost
L^ii'lish, face — too fair and delicate for tlie
id«'al of most <:irls : hut Betli admired its
paleness and delicate features, and Clarence
Mfjyfair had come to he often in her thoughts.
She rememhered (juite well when the Mayfairs
had moved into the neighborhood and taken
]>()ssession of the tine old manor beside the lake,
and she had ])ecome friends with the only
daughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clar-
ence. Clarence wrote such pretty little poems,
too. This had been the foundation of their
friendship, and, since their tastes and ambitions
were so nnich alike, what if —

Her eyes grew brighter, and she almost fancied
he was looking down into her face. Oh, those
eyes — hush, maiden heart, be still. She smiled
at the white cloud drifting westward — a little
Iniat-shaped cloud, with two white figures in it,
sailing in the sunnner blue, 'i'he breeze rutHed
her dark hair. There fell a louir shadow on the
grass beside her.

"Clarence — Mr. Mayfair ! I didn't see you
coming. When did you get home ? "

14

liETH WOODUrUN.

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" Last nij^ht. I .stayed hi 'roronto till tlio
report of our * exams ' came out."

" I see you have been successful," she replied.
" Allow me to con trratu late you."

" Thank you. I hear you are comin<( to
'Varsity this fall, Miss Woodljiu-n. Don't you
think it (juite an undertaking ? I'm sure I wisli
you joy of the hard work."

" Why, I hope you are not wearying of your
course in the middle of it, Mr. May fair. It is
only two years till you will have your B.A."

" Two years' hard work, though ; and, to tell
the truth, a B.A. has lost its charms for me. I
long to devote my life more fully to literature.
That is my first ambition, you know, and I
seem to be wasting so much time."

" You can hardly call time spent that way
wasted," she answered. " You will write all the
better for it by and by."

Then they plunged into one of their old-time
literary talks of authors and books and ambi-
tions. Beth loved these talks. There was no
one else in BriarsHeM she could discuss these
matters with like Clarence. She was noticing
meanwhile how nuich paler he looked than
when she saw him last, but she admired him all
the more. There are some women who love a
man all the more for bein£r delicate. It jrives

III

BETH AT EIGHTEEN.

15

tliein better opportunities to display their wo-
manly tenderness. Beth was one of these.

" By the way, I nmstn't forget my errand,"
Clarence exclaimed after a lon^ chat.

He handed her a dainty little note, an invita-
tion to tea from his sister Edith. Beth accepted
with pleasure. She blushed as he pressed her
hand in farewell, and their eyes met. That look
and touch of his went very deep — deeper than
they should have gone, perhaps ; but the years
will tell their tale. She watched him goinj;
down the hill-side in the afternoon sunshine,
then fell uo dreaming again. What if, after all,
she should not alwa3^s stay alone with daddy ?
If someone else should come — And she began
to picture another study where she should not
have to write alone, but there should be two
desks by the broad windows looking out on the
lake, and somebody should —

" Beth ! Beth ! come and set the tea-table.
My hands is full with them cherries."

Beth's dream was a little ruflely broken by
Mrs. Martin's voice, l>ut she complacently rose
and went into the house.

Mrs. Martin was a small grey-haired woman,
very old-fashioned; a prim, goo<l old soul, a little
sharp-tongued, a relic of bygone days of Cana-
dian life. She had been Dr. Wood burn's house-

in

BETH WOODRUKN.

keopcr ever since Beth could reiiieinber, and
tliey liad always called her "Aunt Prudence."

" What did that <i^andershanks of a Mayfair
want ? " asked the old lady with a funny smile,
as Betli was bustlin<]j about.

" Oh, just come to brin^ an invitation to tea
from Edith."

Dr. Wood])urn entere«l as soon as tea was
ready. He was th<^ ideal father one meets in
books, and if there was one thinj; on earth Beth
was proud of it was " dear <laddy." He was a
fine, broad-browed man, strikingly like Beth,
but with hair silvery long before its time. His
eyes were like hers, too, though Beth's face
had a little shadow of gloom that did not belong
to the doctor's genial countenance.

It was a pleasant little tea-table to which
they sat down. Mrs Martin always took tea
with them, and as she talked over Briarsfield
gossip to the doctor, Beth, as was her custom,
looki^d silently out of the window upon the
green sloping lawn.

" Well, Beth, dear," said Dr. Woodburn, " has
Mrs. Martin told you that young Arthur Graf-
ton is coming to spend his holidays with us ^ "

" Arthur Grafton : Why, no ! " said Beth with
pleased surprise.

" He is coming. He may drop in any day.

BETH AT EIGHTEEN.

17

H«' graduated tliis spring, you know. He's a
tine vouniT man, I'm told."

"Oil! Betli ain't got time to tlnnlv altout
Muytlung but that slim young Mayfair, now-a-
days," put in Mrs. Martin. "He's been out there
with her most of the afternoon, and me with all
them cherries to tend to."

Beth saw a faint shadow cross her fatlier's
face, but put it aside as fancy oidy and began to
think of Arthur. He was an old play-fellow of
hers. An or[)han at an early age, he had spent
his childhood on his uncle's farm, just beyond
th<' pine wood to the north of her home. Her
father had always taken a deep interest in him,
and when the death of his uncle and aunt left
him alone in the world. Dr. Woodburn had taken
him into his home for a couple of years until he
had gone away to school. Arthur had written
once or twice, but Beth was staying with her
Aunt Margaret, near Welland, that summer,
and she had seen fit, for unexplained reasotis,
to stop the correspondence : so the friendship
had ended there. It w^as five years now since
she had seen her old play-fellow, and she found
herself wondering if he would be greatly
changed.

After tea Beth took out her books, as usual,
for an hour or two ; then, about eight o'clock,

>>

18

HETH WOODHIJUN.

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i

witli Ikt tin-pail on her arnj, started up the roa<l
for the milk. This was one of her childhoods
tasks that she still took pleasure in performing,'.
She sauntered alon^ in the sweet June twilight
past the fragrant clover meadow and throuj^h
the pine wood, with the tire-Hies dartin*,'
beneath the boughs. Some j^irls would have
been frightened, but Beth was not timid. She
loved the still sweet solitude of her evening,'
walk. The old picket gate clicked behind her
at the Birch Farm, and she went up the path
with its borders of four-o'clocks. It was
Arthur's old home, where he had ])asse<l his
childhood at his uncle's — n great cheery old
farm-house, with morning-glory vines clinging
to the windows, and sun-tlowers thrusting their
great yellow faces over the kitchen wall.

The door was open, but the kitchen empty,
and she surmised that Mrs. Birch had not
finished milking; so Beth sat down on the rough
bench beneath the crab-apple ti'ee and began to
dream of the olden days. There was the old chain
swing where Arthur used to swing her, and tho
cherry-trees where he tilled her apron. She was
seven and he was ten — but such a man in her
eyes, that sun-browned, dark-eyed boy. An<l
what a hero he was to her when she fell over
the bridge, and he rescued her! He used to

IIKTH AT KKJIITKFA'.

19

^'ot nnpfiy tliough soinotinios, Drjir, liow lie
tlirashcd Saniniie Jom*s I'or calling her a " little
snip." Arthur was ^ood, thouj^li, very jjjood.
He useil to sit in tliat very liench where she was
sittinir, and e.\r)lain tlie Sundav-scliool lesson to
her, and say such ;jood thin*^s. Her lather ha<l

told lu'r two or three years a<^o ot Arthurs
decision to be a missionary. He was f^oin^
away off* to Palestine. *' I wonder how he can
do it," she thou<,dit. " He has his H.A. now, too,
an<l he was always so clever. He nnist be a
hero. I'm not ^ood like that ; I — I don't think
I want to be so j^()o<l. Clarence isn't as ^ood
as that. But Clarence n»ust be good. His
poetry shows it. I wonder it" Arthur will like
Chirence '. "

Mrs. Birch, with a pail of fresh nnlk on each
arm, interrupted her reverie.

Beth enjoyed her walk home that nifijht. The
moon had just risen, and the pale stars peeped
throutjh the patches of white cloud that to her
fancy looked like the foot-])i'intH of angels here
and there on the path of the infinite. As she
neared home a sound of music thrilled her. It
was only an old familiar tune, but she stopped
as if in a trance. The touch seemed to fill her
very soul. It was so brave and yet so tender.
The music ceased ; some sheep were bleating in

20

HETH WOODBIRX.

Iljlil

the distance, the Htars were j^rowin^ brighter,
and .slie went on toward home.

She was surprised as slie crossed the yanl to
see a tall dark-haired stranger talking to hor
father in the parlor. She was just passing thr
parlor door when he canie toward her.

•' Well, Beth, my old play-mate ! "

" Arthur ! "

They would have made a subject for an artist
as they stood with clasped hands, the handsome
dark-eyed man ; the girl, in her white dress, her
milk-pail on her arm, and her wondering grey
eyes upturned to his.

" Why, Beth, you look at me as if I were a
spectre."

" But, Arthur, you're so changed ! Why,
you're a man, now ! " at which he laughed a
merry laugh that echoed clear to the kitchen.

Beth joined her father and Arthur in the
parlor, and they talked the old days over again
before they retired to rest. Beth took out her
pale blue dress again before she went to sleep.
Yes, she would wear that to the Mayfair's next
day, and there were white moss roses at the
dining-room window that would just match. So
thinking she laid it carefully away and slept her
girl's sleep that night.

A DIIEAM OK LIFE.

21

CHAFrEU 11.

A DREAM OF LIFE.

if I were a

It was late the next afternoon when Betli
Ht(j()<l before tlie mirror fastening the niosa roses
in lier belt. Arthur had gone away with her
father to see a friend, and would not return till
well on in the evening. Aunt Prudence gave her
the customary warning about not staying late
and Beth went off with a lighter heart than
usual. It was a delightful day. The homes
all looked so cheery, and the children were play-
ing at the gates as she went down the street.
There was one her eye dwelt on more than the
rest. The. pigeons were strutting on the slop-
ing roof, the cat dozed in the window-sill, and
the little fair-haired girls were swinging under
the cherry-tree. Yes, marriage and home must
be sweet after all. Beth had always .said she
never would marry. She wanted to write

22

HETII WnoDIUUX.

stories ami not Imve other cares. But school
j^irls clia!ij:fe their views sometimes.

It was only a few minutes' walk to the May-
fair residence }jesi<le the lake. Beth was familiar
with the ])lace and scarcidy noticed thcj^reatold
lawn, the trees almost concealin<^ the house :
that pretty fountain yonder, the tennis grouml
to the south, and the j^reat hlue Erie stretcliin^^-
far away.

E«lith Mayfair came down the walk to meet
her, a li<^ht-haired, winsome creature, several
years older than Beth. But she looked even
younger. Hers was such a child-like face ! It
was j)retty to see the way she twined her arm
about Beth. 'I'hey had loved each other ever
since the JMayfairs liad come to Briarsfield three
years a^o. Mr. and Mrs. Mayfair were sitting
on the veraiuhi. Beth had always loved Mrs.
Mayfair ; she was such a bright girlish woman,
in spite of her di^ifnity and soft grey hair. Mr.
Mayfair, too, had a calm, pleasing manner. To
Beth's literary mind there was something about
the Mayfair home that reminded her of a novel.
They were wealthy people, at least supposed to
be so, who had settled in Briarsfield to live their
lives in rural contentment.

It was a pretty room of Edith's that she took
Beth into — a pleasing confusion of curtains,

A DHKAM <»F LIFE.

23

hooks, inu.sic. ami Howcih, witli a j^iiitiir lyiiifj^
on tlii' coacli. TImtc whs h plioto on tlu' little
tuKle tliat caught Hctli's attention. It was Mr.
Aslilcy, the classical master in Briarsfi«'l(l \\'\rr]i
School, for HriarsHeM coiiM boast a Hij^h School.
11«' and Edith had become very friendly, and
villa^^e f^'ossip was already linkin<^ their names.
P.t'th looked uj) and saw Kdith watchinjjf lier
with a smilinj^, blushin<( face. The next minute
she throw l)oth arms about Beth.

" Can't you guess what I was jjjoin<j to tell
you, Beth, dear ?"

" Why, Edith, are you and Mr. Ashley — "

" Yes, dear. I thouj^ht you would jruess."

Beth only hug<;ed her by way of congratula-
tion, and Edith laughed a little hysterically.
Beth was used to these emotional fits of Edith's.
Then she began to (juestion —

" When is it to be (*"

" September. And you will be my brides-
maid, won't you, dear ? "

Beth promised.

" Oh, Beth, I think marriage is tlie grandest
institution God ever made."

Beth had a strange dream-like look in her
eyes, and the tea-bell broke their reverie.

Mr. Ashley had dropped in for tea, and
Clarence sat beside Beth, with Edith and her

24

BETH WOODBURX.

betrothed opposite. It was so pleasant and
home-like, with the pink cluster of roses smilint^
in at the window.

After tea, Edith and Mr. Ashley seemed pre-
pared for a tete-d-tete, in which Mrs. Mayfair
was also interested ; and Clarence took Beth
around to the conservatory to see a night-
blooming cirius. It was not out yet, and so
they went for a promenade through the long
grounds toward the lake. Beth never forgot
that walk in all her life to come. Somehow
she did not seem herself. All her ambition and
struggle seemed at rest. She was a child, a
careless child, and the flowers bloomed around
her, and Clarence was at her side. The lake
was very calm when they reached it ; the stars
were shining faintly, and they could see Long
Point Island like a long dark line in the distant
water.

" Arthur is going to take me over to the
island this week," said Beth.

They had just reached a little cliff jutting out
over the water. It was, perhaps, one of the
most picturesque scenes on the shores of Lake
Erie.

" Wouldn't it be grand to be on this cliff and
watch a thunderstorm coming up over the
lake ^" said Beth.

A DREAM OF LIFE.

25

" You are very daring Beth — Miss Woodlnirn.
Edith would rather hide her head under the
blankets."

•' Do you know, I really love thunderstorms,"
continued Beth. " It is such a nice safe feeling
to lie (juiet and sheltered in bed and hear the
thunder crash and the storm beat outside.
Somehow, I always feel more deeply that (Jod
is great and powerful, and that the world has
a live ruler." She stopped rather suddenly.
Clarence never touched on religious subjects in
conversation —

" Dear, what a ducking Arthur and I got in
a thunderstorm one time. We were out hazel-
nutting and — "

"Do you always call Mr. Grafton Arthur r'
interrupted Clarence, a little impatiently.

" Oh, yes ! Why, how funny it would seem
to call Arthur Mr. Grafton ! "

" Beth " — he grew paler and his voice al-
most trembled, — "Bet!i, do you love Arthur
Grafton?"

" Love Arthur ! Why, dear, no I I never
thought of it. He's just like my Inother.
Besides," she continued after a pause, " Arthur
is going away off somewhere to be a missionary,
and I don't think I could be happy if I married
a man who wasn't a writer."

20

BETH WOODBURN.

r *.■

That was very naive of Beth. She forgot
Clarence's literary pretensions.

" Then can you love me, Beth ? Don't you
see that I love you ?"

There was a moment's silence. Their eyes
met in a long, earnest look. An impulse of
tenderness came over her, and she threw both
arms about his neck as he clasped her to his
breast. The stars were shining above and the
water breaking at their feet. They understood
each other without words.

" Oh, Clarence, I am so happy, so very
happy!"

The night air wafted the fragrance of roses
about them like incense. They walked on along
the shore, happy lovers, weaving their life-
dreams under the soft sky of that summer
night.

" I wonder if anyone else is as happy as we
are, Beth ! "

" Oh, Clarence, how good we ought to be ! I
mean to always be kinder and to try and make
other people happy, too."

" You are good, Beth. May God bless our
lives."

She had never seen Clarence ao earnest and
manly before. Yes, she was very much in love,
she told herself.

A DREAM OF LIFE.

27

They talked much on the way back to the
liouse. He told her that his father was not so
wealthy as many people supposed ; that it would
be several years before he himself could marry.
But Beth's brow was not clouded. She wanted
her college course, and somehow Clarence seemed
so nmch more manly with a few difficulties to
face.

A faint sound of music greeted them as they
reached the house. Edith was playing her
guitar. Mrs. Mayfair met them on the
veranda.

" Why, Clarence, how late you've kept the
child out," said Mrs. Mayfair with a motherly
air. "I'm afraid you will catch cold. Miss
Woodburn ; there is such a heavy dew ! "

Clarence went up to his mother and said
something in a low tone. A pleased look
lighted her face.

" I am so glad, dear Beth, my daughter. I
shall have another daughter in place of the one
I am giving away."

She drew the girl to her breast with tender
affection. Beth had been motherless all her life,
and the caress was sweet and soothing to her.
Edith fastened her cape and kissed her fondly
when she was going home. Clarence went with
her, and somehow everything was so dream-like

28

BETH WOODHUUN.

and unreal that even the old rough-cast home
looked strange and shadowy in the moon-light.
It was perhaps a relief that her father had not
yet returned.

She was smiling and happy, but even her own
little room seemed strangely unnatural that
night. She stopped just inside the door and
looked at it, the moonlight streaming through
the open window upon her bed. Was she really
the same Beth Woodburn that had rested there
last night and thought about the roses. She
took them out of her belt now. A sweetly
solemn feeling stole over her, and she crossed
over and knelt at the window, the withered
loses in her hand, her face upturned to heaven.
Sacred thoughts tilled her mind. She had
longed for love, someone to love, someone who
loved her ; but was she worthy, she asked her-
self, pure enough, good enough ? She felt to-
night that she was kneeling at an unseen shrine,
a bride, to be decked by the holy angels in robes
whiter than mortal ever saw.

Waves of sweet music aroused her. She
started up as from a dream, recognizing at once
the touch of the same hand that she had heard
in the distance the night before, and it was
coming from their own parlor window, right
beneath hers ! She held her breath almost as

A DREAM OF LIFE.

29

slie stole out and leaned over the balustrade to
peer into the parlor. Why, it was Arthur!
Was it possible he could play like that ? She
made a strikin^r picture as she stood there on
the stairs, her crreat ^rrey eyes drinkin^r in the
music : but she was relieved somehow when it
ceased. It was brioht, quick, inspirinrr; but it
seemed to make her forget her new-born joy
while it lasted.

30

BETH WOODBUllN.

CHAPTER III.

■!l ! '

IK'

)\

H

P

a!

WHITHER, BETH?

Beth was lyingj in the liammock, watching
the white clouds chase each other over the sky.
Her face was quite unclouded, though the
morning had not passed just as she had hoped.
It was the next afternoon after she had taken
tea at the Mayfair's, and Clarence had come to
see her father that morning. They had had a
long talk in the study, and Beth had sat in her
room anxiously pulling to pieces the roses that
grew at her window. After a little while she
was called down. Clarence was gone, and she
thought her father did not look quite satisfied,
though he smiled as she sat down beside him.

" Beth, I am sorry you are engaged so young,"
he said gently. " Are you sure you love him,
Beth ? "

" Oh, yes, papa, dear. You don't understand,''

WHITHER, BETH

31

and she put both arms about his neck. " I am
in love, truly. Believe me, I shall bo happy."

" Clarence is delicate, too," said her father
with a grave look.

Tliey were both silent for a few minutes.

" But, after all, he cannot marry for three or
four years to come, and you must take your
collefTo course, Beth.'

They were silent again for a moment.

" Well, God bless you, Beth, my darling
child." There were tears in his eyes, and his
voice was very gentle. He kissed her and went
out to his office.

What a dear old father he was ! Only Beth
wished he had looked more hopeful and enthu-
siastic over the change in her life. Aunt Pru-
dence had been told before dinner, and she had
taken it in a provokingly (piiet fashion that
perplexed Beth. W^hat was the matter with
them all ? Did they think Clarence the pale-
faced boy that he looked ^ They were quite
mistaken. Clarence was a man.

So Miss Beth reasoned, and the cloud passed
off her brow, for, after all, matters were a))out
as they were before. The morning had been
rather pleasant, too. Arthur had played some
of his sweet old pieces, and then asked as a
return favor to see some of her writing. She

32

BETH WOODBURX.

had <,Mvon liim several copies of the Briarsfiekl
Echo, and lie was still reading. In spite of her
thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now an«l
again what Arthur would think of her. Would
he be proud of his old play -mate i He came
across the lawn at last and drew one of the
chairs up beside the hammock.

" I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I
should be proud of you. You are talented —
indeed, you are more than talented ; you are a
genius, I believe. But do you know, Beth, I do
not like your writings ( "

He looked at her as if it pained him to utter
these words.

" They are too gloomy. There is a senti-
mental gloom about everything you write. I
don't know what the years since we parted have
brought you, Beth, but your writings don't
seem to come from a full heart, overflowing with
happiness. It seems to me that with your com-
mand of language and flowing style you might
bring before your reader such sweet little homes
and bright faces and sunn}?^ hearts, and that is
the sv/eetest mission a writer has, I believe."

Beth watched him silently. She had not
expected this from Arthur. She thought he
would overwhelm her with praise ; and, instead,
he sat there like a judge laying all her faults

WHITHEK, BETH ?

33

before her. Stern critic ! Somehow he didn't
spom just like the old Arthur.

" I don't like him any more," she thought.
" H(« isn't like his old self."

But somehow she could not help respecting
liiiii as she looked at him sittinir there with that
LTrt^at wave of dark hair brushed back from his
brow, and liis soulful eyes fixed on something
in space. He looked a little sad, too.

" Still, he isn't a writer like Clarence," she
thought, "and he doesn't know how to praise
like Clarence does."

" But Arthur," she said, finally speaking her
thoughts aloud ; " you speak as though I could
cbange my way of writing merely by resolving
to. I can write only as nature allows."

" That's too sentimental, Beth ; just like your
writing. You are a little bit visionary."

" But there are gloomy and visionary writers
as well as cheerful ones. Both have their
, ace.

" I do not believe, Beth, that gloom has a place
in this bright earth of ours. Sadness and sorrow
will come, but there is sweetness in the cup as
well. The clouds drift by w^th the hours, Beth,
but the blue sky stands firm throughout all
tune.

She caught sight of Clarence coming as he
3

34

BETH WOODBURN.

r f

1^11!

was vspeaking, and scarcely heeded his last words,
but nevertheless they fastened themselves in her
mind, and in after years she recalled them.

Clarence and Arthur had never met before
face to face, and somehow there was something
striking about the two as they did so. Arthur
was only a few years older, but he looked so
manly and mature beside Clarence. They
smiled kindly when Beth introduced them, and
she felt sure that they approved of each other.
Arthur withdrew soon, and Beth wondered if he
had any suspicion of the truth.

Once alone with her, Clarence drew her to his
heart in true lover-like fashion.

" Oh, Clarence, don't ! People will see you."

" Suppose they do. You are mine."

" But you musn't tell it, Clarence. You won't,
will you ? "

He yielded to her in a pleasant teasing
fashion.

" Have you had a talk with your father,
Beth ? "

" Yes," she answered seriously, " and I rather
hoped he would take it differently."

•' I had hoped so, too ; but, still, he doesn't
oppose us, and he will become more reconciled
after a while, you know, when he sees what it is
to have a son. Of course, he thinks us very

WHITHER, BETH ?

35

young ; but still I think we are more mature
than many young people of our age."

Beth's face looked changed in the last twenty-
four hours. She had a more satisfied, womanly
look. Perhaps that love-craving heart of hers
had been too empty.

" I have been looking at the upstair rooms at
home,'' said Clarence. " There will have to be
some alterations before our marriage."

*' Why, Clarence ! " she exclaimed, laughing ;
" you talk as though we were going off to
Gretna Green to be married next week."

" Sure enough, the time is a long way off, but
it's well to be looking ahead. There are two
nice sunny rooms on the south side. One of
them would be so nice for study and writing.
It has a window looking south toward the lake,
and another w^est. You were always fond of
watching the sun set, Beth. But you must
come and look at them. Let's see, to-day's
Saturday. Come early next week ; I shall be
away over Sunday, you know,"

" Yes, you told me so last night."

" Did I tell you of our expected guest ? " he
asked, after a pause. " Miss Marie de Vere, the
daughter of an old friend of my mother's. Her
father was a Frenchman, an aristocrat, quite
wealthy, and Marie is the only child, an orphan.

86

BETH WOODBURX.

My mother has asked her here for a few
weeks."

" isn't it a strikinff name ? " said Beth," Marie
de Vere ; pretty, too. I wonder what she will
l)e like."

" I hope you will like her, Beth. She makes
her home in Toronto, and it wouhl be nice if you
became friends. You will be a stranger in
Toronto, you know, next winter. How nice it
will be to have you there while I am there,
Beth. I can see you (juite often then. Only I
hate to have you study so hanl."

" Oh, but then it won't hurt my brain, you
know^ Thoughts of you will interrupt my
studies so often ! " she said, with a coquettish
smile.

Clarence told her some amusing anecdotes of
'Varsity life, then went away early, as he was
going to leave the village for a day or two.

Beth hurried off to the kitchen to help Aunt
Prudence. It was unusual for her to give any
attention to housework, but a new interest in
domestic affairs seemed to have aroused within
her to-day.

The next day was Sunday, and somehow it
seemed unusually sacred to Beth. The Wood-
burn household was at church quite early, and
Beth sat gazing out of the window at the

WHITHER, HETH ?

37

|)!irHoim<(e acroHs tl>e r()a<l. It was so lioinclikc
— a j^rcat H<|iian' old brick, witli a i^roup of
liollyocks beside the stu<ly window.

'Die services that (hiy seemed unusually sweet,
particularly the Sunday-school hour. Heth's
attention wandered fron> the lesson once or
twice, and she noticed Arthur in the opposite
corner teaching a class of little j^irls — little tots
in white dresses. He looked so pleased and
self -forgetful. Both ha<l never seen him look
like that before; and the children were open-
eyed. She saw him again at the close of the
Sunday-school, a little light-haired creature in
his arms.

" Why, Arthur, I didn't think you were so
fond of children."

" Oh, yes, I'm (piite a grandfather, only minus
the grey hair."

It was beautiful walking home that afternoon
in the light June breeze. She wondered what
(Jlarence was doing just then. Home looked so
sweet and pleasant, too, as she opened the gate,
and she thought liow sorry she should be to
leave it to go to college in the fall.

Beth stayed in her room a little while, and
then came down stairs. Arthur was alone in
the parlor, sitting by the north window, and
Beth sat down near. The wind had ceased, the

38

BETH WOODBURN.

'',

i'l

sun was slowly sinking in the west, a flock of
sheep were resting in the shadow of the elms on
the distant hill-slope, and the white clouds
paused in the blue as if moored by unseen
hands. Who has not been moved by the peace
and beauty of the closing hours of a summer
Sabbath ? Arthur and Beth were slow to
begin conversation, for silence seemed more
pleasing.

" Arthur, when are you going out as a mis-
sionary ? " asked Beth, at last.

'• Not for three or four years yet."

" Where are you going, do you know ? "

" To the Jews, at Jerusalem."

" Are you sure you will be sent just where
you want to go ? "

*• Yes, for I am going to pay my own ex-
penses. A bachelor uncle of mine died, leaving
me an annuity."

" Don't you dread going, though ? "

*' Dread it ! No, I rejoice in it ! " he said,
with a radiant smile. " One has so many oppor-
tunities of doing good in a work like that."

" Do you always think of what you can do
for others ? "

" That is the best way to live," he answered,
a sweet smile in the depths of his dark eyes.

" But don't you dread the loneliness ? "

" I will never leave thee nor forsake thee."

WHITHER, BETH i

39

as a mis-

" Oh, Arthur ! " — she buried her face for a
moment in the cushions, and then looked up at
him with those searching grey eyes of hers —
" you are brave ; you are good ; I wish I were,
too."

He looked down upon her tenderly for a
moment.

" But, Beth, isn't your life a consecrated one —
one of service ? "

*' It is all consecrated but one thing, and I
can't consecrate that."

"You will never be happy till you do. Beth,
I am afraid you are not perfectly happy," he
said, after a pause. " You do not look to be."

" Oh, yes, I am quite happy, very happy, and
I shall be happier still by and by," she said,
thinking of Clarence. " But, Arthur, there is
one thing I can't consecrate. I am a Christian,
and I do mean to be good, only I can't conse-
crate my literary hopes and work."

" Oh, why not, Beth ? That is the very thing
you should consecrate. That's the widest field
you have for work. But why not surrender
that, too, Beth ? "

" Oh, I don't know. I couldn't write like
' Pansy ' does, it isn't natural to me."

" You don't need to write like ' Pansy.' She
has done splendid work, though, and I don't
believe there is a good home where she isn't

w

40

BETH WOODBUUNi

'iillil

'I:

i 'I

■i

f

i i

loved. But it may not be your place to be just
like ' Pansy.' "

" No ; I want to be -i George Eliot."

A graver look crosf his face.

"That is right to a certain extent. George
Eliot certainly had a grand intellect, but if she
had only been a consecrated Christian woman
how infinitely greater she might have been !
With such talent as hers undoubtedly was, she
could have touched earth with the very tints of
heaven. Beth, don't you see what grand possi-
bilities are yours, with your natural gifts and
the education and culture that you will have ;* "

" Ah, yes, Arthur, but then — I am drifting
somehow. Life is bearing me another way.
I feel it within me. By-and-by I hope to be
famous, and perhaps wealthy, too, but I am
drifting with the years."

" But it is not the part of noble men and
women to drift like that, Beth. You will be
leaving home this fall, and life is opening up to
you. Do you not see there are two paths before
you ? Which will you choose, Beth ? * For self i '
or ' for Jesus ? ' The one will bring you fame and
wealth, perhaps, but though you smile among
the adoring crowds you will not be satisfied.
The other — oh, it would make you so much
happier ! Your books would be read at every
fire-si<le, and Beth Woodburn would be a name

WHITHfiR, BETH (

41

o be just ^ to be loved. You are drifting — but whitber,
Heth ? "

His voice was so gentle as be spoke, liis smile
so tender, and tbere was sometbing about bim
so unlike any otber man, sbe could not forget
tbose last words.

Tb

-bei

falli

ber pillow that

moon- beams
night mingled with her dreams, and she and
Clarence were alone together in a lovely island
garden. It was so very beautiful — a grand
temple of nature, its aisles carpeted with dewy
^aass, a star-gemmed heaven for its dome, a star-
strewn sea all round ! No mortal artist could
have planned that mysteriously beautiful pro-
fusion of flowers— lily and violet, rose and
oleander, palm-tree and passion-vine, and the
olive branches and orange blossoms interlacing
in the moon-light above them. Arthur was
watering the tall white lilies by the water- side
and all was still with a hallowed silence they
dared not break. Suddenly a wild blast swept
where thev stood. All was desolate and bare,
and Clarence was gone. In a moment the bare
rocks where she had stood were overwhelmed,
and she was driftinj; far out to sea — alone !
Stars in the sky above — stars in the deep all
round and the win<ls and the waters were still !
And she was driftino- — but whither ?

42

BETH WOODBURN.

CHAPTER IV.

MARIE.

" Isn't she pretty ? "

" She's picturesque looking."

" Pretty ? picturesque ? I think she's ugly ! "

These were the varied opinions of a group of
Briarsfield girls who were at the station when
the evening train stopped. The object of their
remarks was a slender girl whom the Mayfairs
received with warmth. It was Marie de Vere —
graceful, brown-eyed, with a small olive face
and daintily dressed brown hair. This was the
girl that Beth and Arthur were introduced to
when they went to the Mayfairs to tea a few
days later. Beth recalled the last evening she
was there to tea. Only a few days had since
passed, and yet how all was changed !

" Do you like Miss de Vere?" asked Clarence,
after Beth had enjoyed a long conversation with
her.

MARIE.

43

" Oh, yes ! I'm just delighted with her ! She
lias sucli kind eyes, and she seems to understand
one so well ! "

" You have fallen in love at first sight. The
pleasure on your face makes up for the long time
1 have waited to get you alone. Only I wish
you would look at me like you looked at Miss
de Vere just now," he said, trying to look
dejected.

She laughed. Those little affectionate expres-
sions always pleased her, for she wondered some-
times if Clarence would be a cold and unrespon-
sive husband. He was not a very ardent lover,
and grey-eyed, intellectual Beth Woodburn had
a lovediungering heart, though few people
knew it.

" Do you know," said Beth, " Miss de Vere
has told me that there is a vacant room at her
boarding-house. She is quite sure she can get it
lor me this winter. Isn't she kind ? I believe
we shall be grreat friends."

" Yes, you will enjoy her friendship. She is
a clever artist and musician, you know. Edith
says she lives a sort of Bohemian life in Toronto.
Her rooms are littered with music and painting
and literature."

" How nice ! Her face looks as if she had a
story, too. There's something sad in her eyes."

44

BETH WOODBURN.

{■

" She struck me as being remarkably lively,"
said Clarence.

" Oh, yes, but there are lively people who
have secret sorrows. Look, there she is walk-
ing with Arthur toward the lake."

Clarence smiled for a moment.

" Perhaps fate may see fit to link them
toifether," he said.

Oh, no, I don't think so ! I can't imagine

( •

IL.

"Gi.'/rn's a fine fellow, isn't he ? "

'^'r.' }, 'i vou like him so well, Clarence.
He's just like my brother, you know. We had
such an earnest talk Sunday night. He made
me feel, oh, I don't know how. But do you
know, my life isn't consecrated to God, Clar-
ence ; is yours ? "

They were walking under the stars of the
open night, and Clarence looked thoughtful for
a moment, then answered unhesitatingly :

" No, Beth. I settled that long ago. I don't
think we need to be consecrated. So long as
we are Christians and live fairly consistent
lives, I think that suffices. Of course, with
people like Arthur Grafton it is different. But
as for us we are consecrated to art, you know,
in the shape of writing. Let us make the
utmost of our talents."

MARIE.

45

'• Yes, we are consecrated to art," said Beth
with a sigh of relief, and began talking of
Marie.

Since Beth was to leave home in the fall, she
did not go away during the summer, and conse-
quently saw much of Marie during the few
weeks she stayed at BriarsHeld. It is strange
how every life we come in contact with leaves
its impress upon ourselves ! It was certainly so
with Marie and Beth. Marie had seen so much
of the world and of human life, and Beth had
always lived so quietly there in her own vil-
lage, that now a restlessness took possession of
her to get away far beyond the horizon of
Briarsfield.

The days passed on as days will pass. Clar-
ence was home most of the time, and he and
Beth had many walks together in the twilight,
and sometimes in the morning. What delight-
ful walks they were in the cool of the early
summer morning ! There was one especially
pretty spot where they used to rest along the
country road-side. It was a little hill-top,
with the ground sloping down on either side,
then rising again in great forest -crowned hills.
Two oak trees, side by side, shaded them as
they watched the little clouds sailing over the
harvest fields.

i I

46

BETH WOODBURN.

Arthur was with them a great deal of the
summer, and Beth was occupied with prepara-
tions for leaving home. She used to talk to
Arthur about Marie sometimes, but he dis-
appointed her by his coldness. She fancied
that he did not altogether approve of Marie.

I ■ i

M

1 1'-

** FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH.'

47

CHAPTER V.

''FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH:'

It came soon, her last Sabbath at home, and
the sun was sinking in the west. Beth sat by
her favorite window in the parlor. Do you
remember that last Sabbath before you left
home ? Everything, the hills outside, the
pictures on the walls, even the very furniture,
looked at you in mute farewell. Beth leaned
back in her rocker and looked through the open
door into the kitchen with its maple floor, and
the flames leaping up in the old cook-stove
where the fire had been made for tea. She had
always liked that stove with its cheery fire.
Then she turned her eyes to the window and
noted that the early September frost had
browned her favorite meadow where the clover
bloomed last June, and that the maples along
the road where she went for the milk every

I '

48

BETH WOODBUHN.

evening, were now all decked in crimson and
yellow.

Her father was sitting at the tay)le reading,
but when she looked around she saw his eyes
were fixed upon her with a tender look. Poor
father ! He would nnss her, she knew, though
he tried not to let her see how much. Aunt
Prudence, too, dear old soul, seemed sorry to
have her go, but she had her own peculiar way
of expressing it, namely, by getting crossf-r
every day. She did not approve of so much
" larnin' " for girls, especially when Beth was
" goin' to be married to that puny Mayfair."
Aunt Prudence always said her " say," as she
expressed it, but she meant well and Beth
understood.

Beth was not to go until Friday, and Clarence
was to meet her at the station. He had been
called away to the city with his father on
business more than a week before. Arthur was
with them to-day, but he was to leave on the
early morning train to join a college mate. He
was to be at Victoria University that winter
and Beth expected to see him often.

They had an early supper, and the September
sunset streamed through the open window on
the old-fashioned china tea-set. Beth was dis-
appointed after tea when her father's services

"FOR I LOVE YOU, HETH."

49

son and ^| wf-re iT(|uirp(l iininediately by a p?iti«*nt several
iiiilos away. Artlinr and she sat down by that
same ,old parlor window in th(^ hush of the
coininf^ ni<jht: a few white clouds were spread
like an<j;el win^s above and the early stars were
sliiiiin^^ in the west. They were silent for ca
wlule. Arthur and Beth were often silent when
together, but the silence was a pleasinj^, not an
(Miiltnrrassin^ one.
" Are you sorry to leave home, Beth ? " asked

Arthiu'.

es.

am

and

wou

Id

you

bel

leve 1

t. I

tliouf^dit I'd be so glad to have a change, and
yot it makes me sad now the time is drawing
near."

They were silent again for a while.

" Arthur, do you know, I think it seems so
liard for you to go away so far and be a mis
sioiiary when you are so fond of home and
home life."

He smiled tenderly upon her, but she did not
know the meaning of that smile then as she
knew a little later.

" It is my Father's will," he .said with a
sweeter, graver smile.

" Beth, do you not see how your talent could
be used in the mission field ? "

" He does not know I am going to marry
4

^

50

BETH WOODHUUN.

Clarence," she thought witli a Hiiiile, " and lie is
going to map out a life work for a maiden lady."

" No, I don't see how," she answered.

" You know there is a large proportion of i
world that never read such a thing as a mission-
ary book, and that if more such hooks were
read, missions would be better supported. Now,
if someone with bright talents were to write
fascinating stories of Arabian life or life in
Palestine, see how much interest would be
aroused. But then you would need to live
among the people and know their lives, and
who would know them so well as a missionary '"

Beth smiled at his earnestness.

" Oil, no, Arthur ; I couldn't do that."

His eyes filled in a moment with a sad, plead-
ing look.

" Beth, can you refuse longer to surrender
your life and your life's toil ? Look, Beth," he
said, pointing upward to the picture of Christ
upon the wall, " can you refuse Him — can you
refuse, Beth i "

" Oh, Arthur, don't," she said, drooping her
face.

•' But I mit8f, Beth ! Will you enter your
Father's service ? Once again I ask you."

Her eyes were turned away and she answered
nothing.

FOR I LOVE Yor, IJKTH.

61

•' Beth," lie sjiid sol'tly, " I hiivc a more sellish
icasuii for ur<^in;,^ you — tor 1 love you, Hcth. I
have loved you niuce we were eliildren toi^etluT.
Will you be my own — my wile / It is ii lioly
service I ask you to share. Are you ready,
15.-th r'

Ker pale face was hidden in her hands, lie
touched her hair reverently. Tick ! tick ! tick !
IVom the old clock in the silence. Then a
crimson flush, and she rose with sudden violenc<\

"Oh, Arthur, what can you mean ^ I thought
— you seemed my brother almost — I tliou<;htyou
would always be that. Oh, Arthur! Arthur!
how can you — how dare you talk so i* I am
Clarence IMayfair's promised wife."

"Clarence Mayfair's — " The words died
away on his white lips. He leaned upon the
mantel-piece, and Beth stood with her ^rey eyes
Hxed. His face was so deathly white. His
eyes were shaded by his hand, and his brow
bore the marks of strong' .'ifjfony. Oh, he was
woinided ! Those moments were awful in their
silence. The darkness deepened in the old
parlor. There was a sound of voices passinfif in
tlu; street. The church bell broke the stillness.
Softly the old calm crept over his brow, and he
raised his face and looked at her with those
^reat dark eyes — eyes of unfathomaljle tender-

52

BETH WOODBURN.

t i

i M •

ness and impenetrable fire, and she felt that
her very soul stood naked V>efore him. She
trembled and sank on the couch at her side.
His look was infinitely tender as he came to-
ward her.

" I have hurt you — forgive me." he said gently,
and he laid his hand on her head S(> reverently
for a moment. His white lips nuirmured some-
thing, but she only caught the last words,
" God bless you — forever. Good-bye, Beth —
little Beth."

He smiled back upon her as he left the room,
but she would rather he had looked sad. That
smile - she could never forget it, with its won-
derful sweetness and sorrow.

She sat motionless for a while after he left
the room. She felt thrilled and numbed 'J'here
are' moments in life when souls stand forth from
their clayey frames and touch each other, for-
getful of time and space. It was one of those
experiences that Beth had just passed through.
She went to her room and crouched down at her
window beneath the stars of that autumn niirht.
Poor Arthur ! She was so sad over it all. And
he had loved her ! How strange ! How could
it have been ^ Loved her since they were chil-
dren, he had said. She had never thought of
love coming like that. And they had played

"FOR I LOVE YOU, 1?ETH."

53

together upon that meadow out there. They
liad <^rown up together and he had even lived
in her home tliose few years 1)efore lie went to
college. No, she had never dreamed of marry-
ing Arthur ! But oh, lie was wounded so ! She
had never seen him look like that before. And
he had hoped that she would share his life and
his labor. She thought how he had pictured
her far away under the burning sun of Palestine,
bathing his heated brow and cheering him for
fresh effort. He had pictured, perhaps, a little
humble home, quiet and peaceful, somewhere
ainid the snow-crested mountains of the East,
where he would walk with her in the cool of
night-fall, under the bright stars and clear sky
of that distant land. Poor, mistaken Arthur !
She was not fitted for such a life, she thought.
They were never made for each other. Their
ambitions were not the same. She had found
her counterpart in Clarence, and he understood
her as Arthur never could have done. Arthur
was a grand, good, practical man, but there was
nothing of the artist-soul in him, she thought.
But she had hoped that he would always be her
own and Clarence's friend. He was such a
noble friend ! And now her hope was crushed.
She could never be the same to him again, she
knew, and he had said farewell.

H

mm

54

BETH WOODBUllN.

"Good-bye, Beth— little Beth," he had said,
and she lingered over the last two words, " little
Beth." Yes, she would be " little Beth" to him
forever now, the little Beth that he had loved
an<l roamed with over meadow and woodland
and wayside, in the sunny, bygone days.

" Good-bye, Beth— little Beth !" Poor Arthur I

VARSITY.

55

CHAPTER VI,

'VARSITY.

Fill DAY morning came, the last day of Sep-
tember, and the train whistled sharply as it
steamed around* the curve from Briarstield with
Beth at one of the car-windows It had almost
choked her to say good-bye to her father at the
station, and she was still straining her eyes to
catch the last glimpse of home. She could see
the two poplars at the gate almost last of all, as
the train bore her out into the open country.
She looked through her tears at the fields and
hills, the stretches of woodland and the old
laini-houses, with the vines clambering over
their porches, and the tomatoes ripening in the
kitchen window-sills. Gradually the tears dried,
lor there is pleasure always in travelling through
Western Ontario, particularly on the lake-side,
between Hamilton and Toronto.

5G

BETH WOODHUllN.

Almost the first one Beth saw, as the train
entered Toronto station, was Chirence, scanninj^
the car-windows eagerly for her face. Her eyes
beamed as he came toward her. She felt as if
at home ajjain. Marie had secured her room
for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased
air when the cab stopped on St. Mary's street.
It was a row of three-storey brick houses, all
alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with
the maples in front, and Victoria University at
the end of the street. A plump, cheery land-
lady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she
did just what hundreds of other girls have done
in her place — sat down on that big trunk and
wept, and wondered what " dear old daddy " was
doing. But she soon controlled herself, and
looked around the room. It was a very pretty
room, with rocker and table, and a book-shelf in
the corner. There was a large window, too,
opening to the south, with a view of St. Michael's
College and St. Basil's Church. Beth realized
that this room was to be her home for the com-
ing months, and, kneeling down, she asked that
the presence of Christ might hallow it.

She was not a very close follower of Christ,
but the weakest child of God never breathed a
prayer unheard.

It was such a pleasant treat when Marie

'VARSITV.

bi

tapped at the door just before tea. It would ])e
nice to have Marie tliere all winter. Beth
looked around the tea-table at the new faces :
Mrs. Owen, at one end of tlie table, decidedly
stout: Mr. Owen, at the other end, decidedly
lean. There were two sweet-faced children, a
liandsonie, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie at
licr side.

The next day, Clarence took Beth over to
Varsity — as Toronto University is popularly
called — and she never forgot that bright autunni
inorn'ng when she passed under the arch of
carved stone into the University halls, those
lonix halls throntjed with students. Clarence
left her in the care of a gentle fourth-year girl,
lleth was taken from lecturer to lecturer until
the registering was done, and then she stopped
Ity one of the windows in the ladies' dressing-
room to gaze at the beautiful autunni scenery
around — the ravine, with its dark pines, and
the Parlian,ent buildings l)eyond. Beth was
beginning to love the place.

We nmst not pause long over that first year
that Beth spent at 'Varsity. It passed like a
Hash to her, the days were so constantly occu-
pied. But her memory was being stored with
scenes she never forgot. It was so refreshing
on the brisk, autunni mornings to walk to

58

BETH WOODBURN.

t

lectures throujjjh the crimson and yellow leaves
of Queen's Park : and, later in the year, when
the snow was falling she liked to listen to the
rooks cawing among the pines behind the
library. Sometimes, too, she walked home
alone in the wierd, winter twilight from the
Modern Language Club, or from a late lecture,
her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then
there were the social evenings in the gymna-
sium, with its red, blue and white decorations,
palms and promenades, and music of the orches-
tra, and hum of strange voices. It was all
new to Beth ; she had seen so little of tlie
world. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A.
gave to the " freshettes " — she enjoyed that,
too. What kind girls they were ! Beth Mas
not slow to decide that the " 'Varsity maid "
would make a model wife, so gentle and kindly
and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still
Beth made hardly any friendships worthy of
the name that first year. She was peculiar in
this respect. In a crowd of girls she was apt to
like all, but to love none truly. When she did
make friends she came upon them suddenly, by
a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and
became so absorbed in them she forgot everyone
else. This friendship with Marie was another
feature of her present life that pleased her. Slie

m

VAUSITV.

59

liad dropped out of Sunday-school work. She
thouj^lit city Sunday-schools chilly, and she
spt'ut many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room.
She liked to sit there in the rocker hy the grate
tire, and listen to Marie talk as she reclined in
tile cushions, with her dark, pictures([ue face.
Tliey talked of love an<l life and books and
music, and the world and its ways, for Marie
was clever and thouohtful. In after a jars Beth
l()()l<ed back on those Sunday afternoons with a
sliadow of regret, for lier feet found a sweeter,
JKjIier path. Marie prided herself on a little
tiiine of scepticism, but they rarely touched on
that ground. The twilight shadows gathered
aljout the old piano in the corner, and the pic-
tures grew dinnner on the wall, and Marie would
play soft love-songs on her guitar, and some-
time Beth would recite one of her poems.

" Have you finished the novel you were
writing last summer, Beth ? " asked Marie, one
(lay.

" Xo, there are just three more chapters, and
I am going to leave them till holidays, next
sununer, so I can give them my full time and
attention."

" Tell me the story."

Tlien Beth sat by the tire with a dreamy look
on her face and told the plot of her story. Marie

I'.,

raiiiiii!'

CO

BETH WOODIUMIN.

11'

loaned forward, a bright, deliglited sparkle in
hur dark eyes. Beth had never interested her liki-
that befoi'e. She felt enc()uran;ed, and Marie
was in raptures when she had finished.

" It's just splendid ! Oh, Beth, how clever
you are ; you will be famous soon. I sliall bo
proud of your friendship."

Beth did not enjoy as much of the company
of Clarence as she had hoped during these days,
though he always brought her hoiiK^ from church
on Sunday evening. Marie was always with
them. Beth never thought of leaving her, and
Clarence, too, seemed to enjoy her company.
Beth was pleased at this; she liked to havi*
Clarence appreciate her friends. Then, they
three often went to the musical concerts ; Betli
liked those concerts so much, and Marie's fiice
would fairly sparkle sometimes, and chanife
with every wave of music.

" Just look ! Isn't Marie's face grand ? " said
Clarence one night in a concert.

Beth only smiled. That night she sat in the
rocker opposite her mirror and looked at her
own reflection.

" What a grave, grey-eyed face it is I " she
thought. She loved music and beautiful things,
and yet she wondered why her eyes never
sparkled and glowed like Marie's. She wished
they had more expression. And yet Marie was

VARSITY.

61

not a pretty <j^u'\ : no one wouM have tlioui^ht for
a iiioiiiont of calling her pretty.

hut what of Ai'thur:' Betli was surprised
that fhu'in*^ all this time slie liad seen liini hut
(iiico, thoutrli she Hved so near to Vict(jria. That
once was in the llniversity hall. Slie had

stiKlied late one aft<

th

fli

noon, in tne n^aanif^-room,
afttT tlie other {^irls w«'re <^one, and it was just
whore the two cori'idors met that she came face
to face witli Arthur. Jle stopped, and inquired
al>out her studies and her health, and his eyes
ifsted kindly upon lier for a moment; but he
•li'l not speak to her just like the old Arthur.
"(lood-hye, Beth— little Beth." She recalled
the words as she passed down the lonf^, deserted
hall, with its row of lights on either side.

There was another thiuij: that touched Beth.
It was when Marie left them just before the
examinations in the spring ; she was going to
visit some friends. Sweet j\Iarie ! How she
would miss her. She sat by the drawing- room
window waiting to bid her good-bye. It was a
bright April day, with soft clouds and a mild
hreeze playing through the budding trees.
.Marie came down looking so pictures(|ue under
her broad-brimmed hat, and lifted lier veil to
receive Betli's farewell kiss. Beth watched her
as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence
came hurrying up to clasp her hand at the gate.

I, i

62

BETH WU0D15UUX.

vv:

■*,-

lie looked paler, Beth tliou^^ht : she hoped lie
would come in, but he turned without lookiii;^'
.at her wind(nv and hurried away. Beth felt !i
little sad at heart; .she looked at the loiii:,
empty drawing-room, and sit^^hed faintly, thtii
went back ui)stairs to her books.

And wliat had that winter brou^dit to Beth f
She had grown; she felt it within herself. Her
mind had stretched out over the great widi
world with its millions, and even over the
worlds of the sky at night, and at times slie
h.ad been overwhelmed at the glory of earths
Creator. Yes, she had grown ; but with her
growth had come a restlessness ; she felt us
though something were giving way beneath her
feet like an iceberg melting in mild waters.
There was one particular night that this restless-
ness had been strong. She had been to the
Modern Language Club, and listened to a lec-
ture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needier. Slie
had never read any of Whitman's poetry before:
she did not even like it. But there were phrases
and sentences here and there, sometimes of
Whitman's, sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that
awakened a strange incoherent music in her
soul — a new chord was struck. It was almost
dark when she reached her room, at the close of
a stormy winter day. She stood at her window
watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud

;.i

!H

VAKSITV.

G'^

jiilnl Upon each other in tlie west. Strife .and
priory she Keenied to read in that sky. She
tliou^Mit of Wliitnian's ru«^;^rt'd manliness, of the
way he liad mingled witli all classes of men —
iiiiii'Med with them to do them irood. Anrl Heth's
heiirt cried out within her, only to do something
in this jL^avat, wear}' world — somethin<;- to uplift,
to ennoble men, to raise the lowlv, to feed and
to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the mil-
lions of homes, to lift men — she knew not
where. This cry in Beth's heart was often
heard after that — to be great, to do something
for others. She was growing weary of the nar-
row l)oundaries of self. She would do good, but
she knew not how. She heard a hungry world
crvinjjf at her feet, but she had not the bread
they craved. Poor, l)linded bird, Ideating against
the bars of heaven ! Clarence never seemed to
understand her in those moods : lie had no sym-
pathy with them. ALas, he had never known
Hcth Woodburn ; he liad understood her intel-
lectual nature, but he had never sounded the
depths of her womanly soul. He did not know
she had a heart larj^e enough to embrace the
whole world, when once it was opened. Poor,
weak, blinded Clarence ! She was as much
stronger than he, as the star is greater than the
moth that flutters towards it.

«

64

HETH WOODHUUX.

CHAPTEli VTI.

ENPEP.

t\

June was almost over, and Beth had been
home a full month on that lonj^ four months'
vacation that university students are privileged
to enjoy. She was very ambitious when she
came home that first vacation. She had con-
ceived a fi'csh idiuil of womanhood, a woman
not only brilliantly'' educated and accomplished,
but also a, gentlo (jueen of the home, one who
thorouyjhly understood the work of her home.
Clarence was (juite pleased when she began to
extol cooking as an art, and Dr. Woodburn
looked through the open kitchen-door wit^
smile at his daughter hidden behin^' •
white apron and al)sorbed in the m\ .ries

I litile

the pastry board. Aunt Prudence
astonished, but she never w^ould
Beth's way of doing things — " didn't see the

wa.s
appro v

KNDEI).

6.1

sense of a notc-l)()ok and lead-pencil. " But
Httli knew what she was doin<; in that respect.

Then there were so many books that Beth
intended to read in that vacation I Marie had
coino to the Mayfair's, too, and helped her to
|)iiss some pleasant hours. But there was some-
tliinir else that was holding Heth's attention.
It was Saturday eveninfi^, and that story
was almost finished, that story on which she
liiul l)uilt so many hopes. She sat in her room
with the great pile of written sheets before her,
almost finished : but her head was weary, and
slie did not feel ecjual to writing the closing
scene that night. She wanted it to be the most
touching scene of all, and so it had to be rolled
up for another week. Just then the door-bell
rung and Mrs. Ashley was announced, our old
friend Edith Mayfair, the same sweet, fair girl
under another name.

They sat down by the window and had a
l()!ig chat.

" Have you seen the new minister and his
wife yet ?" asked Edith.

"No; I heard he was going to preach to-
morrow."

The Kev. Mr. Perth, as the new Methodist

iiiinist'r, was just now ocupying the attention

of Bi' stield.
.1

66

BETH WOODBURN.

■I

" It's interest g .o have new people come to
town. I wonder if they will be very nice. Are
they young ? " asked Beth.

" Yes. They haven't been married so very
long."

" Edith " — Beth hesitated before she finished
the quietly eager enquiry — " do you still think
marriage the best thing in the world ? "

Edith gave her friend a warm embrace in
reply. " Yes, Beth, I think it the very best
thing, if God dwell in your home."

" That sounds like Arthur," said Beth.

" Do you ever hear of him. Where is he ? "

" I don't know where he is," said Beth, with a
half sigh.

Clarence walked home with Beth to dinner,
after church, the next morning.

" How do you like the new minister ? " Beth
asked.

" Oh, I think he's a clever little fellow."

* So do I," said Beth. " He seems to be a man
of progressive ideas. I think we shall have
bright, interesting sermons."

Marie was slightly ill that Sunday, and did
not come out. Clarence and Beth took a
stroll in the moonlight. The world looked
bright and beautiful beneath the stars, but
Clarence was (juieter even than usual, and Beth

ENDED.

67

sighed faintly. Clarence was growinj^ strangely
quiet and unconfidential. He was certainly not
a demonstrative lover. Perhaps, after all, love
was not all she had dreamed. She had painted
her dreamland too bright. She did not acknow-
ledge this thought, even to her own soul ; but her
licart was a little hungry that summer night.
Poor Beth I Before another Sabbath she was
to know a greater pain than mere weariness.
Tlie flames were being kindled that were to
scorch that poor heart of hers.

It was about ten o'clock the next niglit when
she finished her novel. Somehow it gave her a
jrrave feeling. Aunt Prudence was in bed, and
Dr. Woodburn had gone out into the country to
a ])atient, and would not return till midmight.
The house was so still, and the sky and the stars
so beautiful ; the curtains of her open window
just moved in the night air ! It was all ended
now — that dreamland which she had lived and
loved and gave expression to on those sheets of
paper. Ended ! And she was sitting there
with her pen in her hand, her work finished,
bendinff over it as a mother does over her child.
She almost dreaded to resign it to a publisher,
to cast it upon the world. And yet it would
return to her, bringing her fame ! She was
sure of that. The last scene alone would make

68

BETH WOODBURN.

her famous. She could ahnost see the sweet
earnest-eyed woman in her white robes at the
altar ; she could hear the sound of voices and
the tread of feet ; she was even conscious of the
fragrance of the flowers. It was all so vivid to
her!

Then a sudden impulse seized her. She would
like so much to show it to Clarence, to talk to
him, and feel his sympathy. He never retired
much before midnight, and it was scarcely ten
minutes' walk. She would get back before her
father returned, and no one would know.
Seizing her hat, she went (juietly out. It was a
freak, but then Beth had freaks now and then.
A great black cloud drifted over the moon, and
made everything quite dark. A timid girl would
have been frightened, but Beth was not timid.

She knew Clarence was likely to be in the
library, and so went around to the south side.
The library window was (luite close to the door
of the side hall, and as Betli came up the terrace,
through the open window a picture met her eyes
that held her spell-bound.

Clarence and Marie were sittint; side bv side
on the sofa, a few feet from the window.
Marie's dark face was drooping slightly, her
cheeks flushed, and her lips just parted in a smile.
There was a picture of the Cruciflxion on the

-dii

ENDED.

69

wall above tliem, and ricli violet curtains hanj^-
intr to one side. One of Marie's slender olive
hands rested on the crimson cushions at her side,
the other Clarence was stroking with a tender
touch. Both were silent for a moment. Then
Clarence spoke in a soft, low tone :

" Marie, I want to tell you something."

" Do you ? Then tell me."

" I don't like to say it," he answered.

" Yes. do. Tell me."

" If I were not an engaged man," — his voice
seemed to tremble faintly and his face grew
paler — " I should try and win you for my wife."

Beth drew back a step, her young cheek color-
less as death. No cry escaped her white lips,
but her heart almost ceased its beating. It was
only a moment she stood there, but it seemed
like years. The dark, blushing girl, the weak,
fair-haired youth in whom she had placed her
trust, the pictures, the cushions, the curtains,
every detail of the scene, seemed printed with tire
upon her soul. She was stung. She had put
her lips to the cup of bitterness, and her face
looked wild and haggard as she turned away.

Only the stars above and the night winJ sigh-
ing in the leaves, and a heart benumbed with
pain ! A tall man passed her in the shadow of
the trees as she was crossing the lawn, but she

•n

w

70

BETFI WOODBURN.

\m'

i

paid no heed. The lif^hts in the village homes
were goint^ out one by one as she returned up the
dark, deserted street. The moon emerged from
the clouds, and filled her room with a flood of
unnatural light just as she entered. She threw
herself upon her pillow, and a cry of pain went
up from her wounded heart. She started the
next instant in fear lest some one had heard.
But no, there was no one near here, save that
loving One who hears every moan : and Beth had
not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer
to rest in His bosom. The house was perfectly
still, and she lay there in the darkness and
silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of
her face. She heard her father's step pass by in
the hall ; then the old clock struck out the mid-
night hour, and still she lay in that stupor with
drops of cold perspiration on her brow.

Suddenly a change came over her. Her cheeks
grew paler still, but her eyes burned. She rose
and paced the room with (juick, agitated steps.

" Traitress ! Traitress ! " she almost hissed
through her white lips. *' It is her fault. It is
her fault. And I called her friend. Friend !
Treachery ! "

Then she sank upon her bed, exhausted by the
outburst of passion, for it took but little of this
to exhaust Beth. She was not a passionate girl.

ENDED.

71

Perhaps, never in her life before had she passed
through anything like passion, and she hiy
there now still and white, her hands folded as in
death.

l!] the meantime something else had hap-
pened at the Mayfair dwelling. She had not
noticed the tall man that passed her as she
crossed the lawn in the darkness, but a moment
later a dark figure paused on the terrace in the
same spot where she had stood, and his attention
was arrested by the same scene in the library,
lie paused but a moment before entering, but
even his firm tread was unheard on the soft
carpet, as he strode up the hall to the half-open
curtains of the library. Marie's face was still
drooping, but the next instant the curtains were
thrown back violently, and they both paled at
the sight of the stern, dark face in the door- way.

'* Clarence Mayfair ! " he cried in a voice of
stern indignation. " Clarence Mayfair, you dare
to speak words of love to that woman at your
side ^ You ! Beth Woodburn's promised hus-
band ? "

" Arthur Grafton ! " exclaimed Clarence, and
Marie drew back through the violet curtains.

A firm hand grasped Clarence by the shoulder,
and, white with fear, he stood trembling before
his accuser.

1 1

72

BETH WOODBURJ^.

" Wretch! unwortliy wretcli ! And you claim
her liand ! Do you know her wortli ? "

" In tlie name of lieaven, Cirafton, don't ahirni
the house !" said Clarence, in a terrified whisper.
His lip trembled with emotion, and Arthur's
dark eyes flashed with fire. There was a shadt;
ot* pitiful scorn in them, too. After all. what a
mere boy this delicate j'^outh looked, he thoug;ht.
Perhaps he was too harsh. He had only heard
a sentence or two outside the window, and he
might have judged too harshly.

" I know it, I know I have wronged her," said
Clarence, in a choked voice ; " but don't betray

« '»

mei

There was a ring of true penitence and sorrow
in the voice that touched Arthur, and as he
raised his face to that picture of the Crucifixion
on the wall, it softened gradually.

" Well, perhaps I am severe. May God for-
give you, Clarence. But it is hard for a man to
see another treat the woman he — well, there, I'll
say no more. Only promise me you will be true
to her — more worthy of her."

" I will try, Arthur. Heaven knows I have
always meant to be honorable."

" Then, good-bye, Clarence. Only you need
not tell Beth you have seen me to-night," said
Arthur, as he turned to leave ; " I shall be out
of Briarsfield before morning."

ENDED.

73

I'oor Artluir ! Time; liad not yet licaled his
wound, but he was one of those ])rave souls who
c'iiii " suffer and be still." That ni^ht, as he was
])jissing tlirou<j;li Briarsfield on the late train, a
(It'sire had seized him to go back to the old place
just once more, to walk up and down for a
littl(! while before the home of the woman he
loved. He did not care to speak to hei* or
to meet her face to face. She was another's
promised wife. Only to be near her home — to
breathe one deep blessinj^ upon her, and then to
leave before break of day, and she would never
know he liad been near. He had come under
cover of the darkness, and had seen her descend-
ing the great wide stairway in her wdiite muslin
dress, and going down the dark street toward
the Mayfairs'. After a little while he had
followed, even approached the windows of
Clarence Mayfairs home, hoping for one last
look. But he had passed her in the shadow of
the trees, and had only seen what filled his
heart with sorrow. A meaner man would have
taken advantage of the sight, and exposed his
rival. But Arthur had anything but a mean
soul. He believed Beth loved Clarence, as he
thought a woman should love the man to wdiom
she gives her life. He believed that God was
calling him to the mission-field alone. He had
only caught a few words that Clarence had said

74

HETII WOODBCRK.

to Marie, and he fancied it may, after all, have
been mere nonsense. Surely he could not havf
ceased to love Betli ! Surely he could not bi-
blind to her merits I Artliur saw only too truly
how weak, emotional and chantjeable Clarencu
w.as, but it was not his place to interfere with
those whom God had joined. So he argued tu
himself.

Bat the night was passing, and Beth still lay
there, no tear on her cold white cheeks. The
clock struck one, a knell-like sound in the
night ! Beth lay there, her hands folded on her
breast, the prayer unuttered by her still lips-
one for death. The rest were sleeping quietly
in their beds. They knew nothing of her suf-
fering. They would never know. Oh, if that
silent messenger would but come now, and still
her weary heart ! They would come in the
morning to look at her. Yes, Clarence would
come, too. Perhaps he would love her just a
little then. Perhaps he would think of her
tenderly when he saw her with the white roses
in her hands. Oh, was there a God in heaven
who could look down on her sorrow to-night,
and not in pity call her home ? She listened
for the call that would bear her far beyond this
earthly strife, where all w^as such tangle and
confusion. She listened, but she heard it not,

EXDED.

<i)

iiiid tlio (larkncss doepeiKMl, tlio moon grew pale
iiii<l the stars faded away. Tlie house was so
still ! The whistle of a steain-eiiirine broke the
silence, and she saw the red light as the train
swept around the curve. It was bearing Arthur
away, and she did not know that one who loved

her had b

Then she

lior nari heen so near; men she saw a grey
v([("du\ in the cast. Ah, no ! she could not die.
The day was coming again, and she would liave
to face them all. She would sit in the same
place at the breakfast table. Slie would meet
Clarence ag-in, and Marie — oh — oh, she could
not bear the thought of it ! She sat up on her
bedside with such a weary, anguished look in
her eyes ! Then she went to kneel at the open
window, where lier mother had taught her to
kneel long years ago. Her sweet-faced, long-
dead mother ! When she raised her eyes again
the east was all aglow with the pink and purple
(lawn, and the rooks were cawing in the pines
across the meadow. She paced the floor for a
moment or two.

" Yes, it must be done. I will do it," she
thought. " He loves her. I will not stand in
the way of his happiness. No ; I had rather
die."

Awd she took a sheet of note-paper, and wrote
these simple words :

7G

iiETH wooDnrux.

"Dear Claren(je, — I do not V)eHovo you love
me any iiioro. I can never be your wife. I
know your secret. I know you love Marie. 1
have seen it often in your eyes. Ue happy with
her, and forget nie. May you be very happy,
always. Good-bye. Beth."

She took it herself to the Mavfair hoiiic,
knowing that her father would only think she
had irone out for a nioi'nini'' walk. The suiokc-
wreaths were curling upward from the kitchen
chimneys as she passed down the street, and
Squire Mayfair looked a little surprised when
she handed him her note for Clarence, and
turned to walk away.

That sleepless, tearless night had told upon
her, and she was not able to come down to
breakfast. Her father came in, and looked at
her with a professional air.

" Just what I told you, Beth. You've worked
too hard. You need rest. That's just what's
the matter," he said, in a brusque voice, as he put
some medicine on the table and left the room.

Rest ! Yes, she could rest now. Her w^ork
was done. She looked at the sheet of manu-
script that she had taken last night to show
Clarence. Yes, the work was done. She Inid
reached the end of her story — the end of her
prospect of marriage. Ended her labor — ended
her life- dream !

\V:

ENDED.

77

As for Clarence, he road lier note without any
I'liiotion.

• Hunipli I I didn't think (Jrafton wa.s the
fi'llow to make mischief so cjuickly. A talc-
licarcr ! Well, it's all for the best. I made a
mistake. I do not love Beth Woodburn. I
cannot understand her."

Beth slept, and seemed inuch better in the
afternoon, but she was still <[uite pale when she
went into her father's room after tea.

" Dear old daddy," she said, putting her arms
about his neck, "you were always so kind.
You never refuse me anything if you can help
it. I wish you would lot me go away."

" Why, certainly, Beth, dear ! " he said briskly.
" Isn't that just what I've been telling you ?
St(^p writing all day in that hot room up-stairs.
Go ort' and have a frolic. Go and see your Aunt
Margaret."

And so it was settled that if Bi'th were well
eiionirh she should start for Welland next after-
noon. She did not see Clarence during the next
morning. It surprised her that he sought no
explanation, and before throe o'clock Briarsfield
was a mere speck in the distance.

78

BETH WOODHURN.

CHAPTER VTIl.

THE HE A VENLY CANAAN.

Nearly two montlis later Beth retunu'<l
lioiiie. Marie lip*(l broken off her visit abruptly,
and Clarence had <,^one away. It was a rainy
Saturday, and Beth sat waitin^^ for her father
to finish his rounds. Her visit had refreshed
her, and she looked fairly well again. After
all, she had so many bright prospects ! She
was young and talented. Her novel was
finished. She would read it throuirh at once,
making minor corrections, and thei: publish it.
With all youth's hopefulness, she w^as sure
of fame and worldly success, perhaps of wealth
too. She seemed to see a rich harvest-field
before her as she sat listening to the rain beat
on the roof that summer afternoon. But, after
all, she was not happy. Somehow, life was
all so hollow ! So much tangle and confusion '

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN.

70

H<'r younj^ feet were weary. It was not simply
tliat lier love was unretunied. That pained her
far less than she would have thouf^ht. It was
that her idol was shattered. Only in the last
tew weeks had she be^un to see Clarence May-
fair as he really was. It was a wonderfully deep
iiisi^dit into human nature that Beth had ; but
she had never applied it where Clarence was
concerned before, and now that she did, what
was it she saw? — a weak, waverinj^, fickle youth,
wivh a good deal of fine sentiment, perhaps,
but without firm, manly strength ; ambitious,
it was true, but never likely to fulfil his ambi-
tions. The sight pained her. And yet this was
the one she had exalted so, and had believed a
soaring genius. True, his mind had fine fibre
in it, but he who would soar must have strength
as well as wings. Beth saw clearly just what
Clarence lacked, and what can pain a woman
more deeply than to know the object she has
idealized is unworthy ?

Beth had not told her father yet that all was
at an end between her and Clarence. She
dreaded telling iiim that, but she knew he must
have learned it from the May fairs during her
absence. She sighed as she thought of it all,
iind just then Dr. Woodburn came in and sat
down on the couch beside her. They talked

.-:|

mm

80

BETH WOODJiURX.

until the twilight of that rainy afternoon bcf^^iii
to deepen. Then they were silent for a while,
and Beth saw her father looking at her with a
tender look in his eyes.

" Beth, my dear child, what is wrong between
you and Clarence ?

Slie had believed she could tell him nil witli
perfect calnmess, but there was something so
very gentle in his look and voice that it dis-
armed her, and slie threw both arms about his
neck, and burst into tears.

" Oh, father, dear, I could not marry him. It
would not be right. He loves Marie de Vere."

Dr. Woodburn turned away his face, tendei'ly
stroking her hair as she leaned upon his l)reast.
He spoke no wor<l, but she knew what he felt.

" Oh, daddy, dear, don't think anything about
it," she said, giving liim a warm embrace' as she
looked up at him, smiling through her tears.
*' I'm not unhappy. I have so many things to
think of, and I have always you, you dear old
fathei'. 1 love you better than anyone else on
earth. I will be your own little daughter
always."

She pressed her arms aboiit him more tightly,
and there were tears in his eyes as he stooped
to kiss her brow.

Beth thought of all his tenderness that night

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN.

<S1

as she lay in bed, and then .slept, with the rain
l)eatinf^ on the roof overhead.

It was a bright sunshiny Sabbatli morning
when she awoke. She remembered with plea-
sure how much she had liked Mr. F^erth, the
new minister, that Sunday. She had heard
liiiu before she went away. He had seemed
such an energetic, wide-awake, inspiring man !
Both liked that stamp of people. She meant to
be a progressive girl. She meant to labor much
and to have much success.

She was quite early at church that morning,
and interested herself by looking at Mrs. Perth,
whom she had never seen before. She was a
fair, slender, girlish creature — very youthful
indeed for a married woman. She had a great
n.'iiss of light hair, drawn back plainly .Vom a
serenely fair forehead. The fashion became her
well, for, in fact, the most striking thing about
her face was its simplicity and purity. She
was certainly plain-looking, but Beth fancied
her face looked like the white cup of a lily.
She had such beautiful blue eyes, too, and such
a sweet smile.

"I think I shall love her. I believe we shall
be great friends," thought Heth, after she had
had an introduction to Mrs. Perth; and they did
become fast friends.

82

BETH WOODBURN.

Beth had seldom been at Sunday-school since
she left home, but an impulse seized her to go
this afternoon. She was (juite early, and she
sat down in a seat b/ herself to muse awhile.
She gazed at the lilies about the altar and the
stained -glass windows above the organ. How
long it seemed to look back to that Sunday of
two months ago I She shuddered slightly, and
tried to change her thoughts, but she could not
help going back to it. It seemed as though
years had since passed. So it is always. We
go about our daily tasks, and the time passes
swiftly or slowly, according as our lives are
active or monotonous. Then a crisis comes —
an upheaval — a turn in the current. It lasts but
a moment, perhaps, but when we look back,
years seem to have intervened. Beth gave a
half sigh, and concluded she was a little weary,
as the people poured into the Bible-class. Mrs.
Perth came and sat beside Beth. Js it not
strange how, in this world of formality aiul
convention, we meet someone now and again,
and there is but a look, a word, a smile, and we
feel that we have known them so long ? There
is something familiar in their face, and we seem
to have walked beside them all along the way.
It w^as just so with Beth and Mrs. Perth. Sweet
May Perth ! She .soon learned to call her that.

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN.

88

Beth was never to forget timt Sunday after-
noon. Mr. Perth taught the BiV)In-claRs. He
was an enthusiastic man, reniinrling her some-
what of Arthur. They were studying, that day,
the approach of the Israelites to Canaan, and as
Mr. Perth grew more earnest, Beth's face wore
a hrighter look of interest. Soon lie laid aside
historical retros})eet, and talked of the heavenly
Canaan toward which Christ's people were
journeying, a bright land shining in the sun-
light of God's love, joy in abundance, joy over-
flowing ! He looked so happy as he talked of
that Divine love, changeless throughout all time,
throughout all eternity — a love that never for-
sakes, that lulls the weary like a cradle-song, a
love that satisfies even the secret longings !
Oh, that woman heart of hers, how it yearned,
yea, hungered for a love like that love, that
could tread the earth in humiliaticm, bearing
the cross of others' guilt, dying there at Cal-
vary 1 She knew that old, old story well, but
she drank it in like a little wondering child
to-day. What were those things He promised
to those who would tread the shining pathway ?
Life, peace, rest, hope, joy of earth, joy of
heaven ! Oh, how she longed to go with them !
The tears were standing in her eyes, and her
heart was beating faster. But this one thing

84

BETH WOODHURN.

she must do, or turn aside from the promised
land of God's people. Down at the feet of
Jesus she must lay her all. And what of that
novel she had written ? Could she carry that
over into this heavenly Canaan <' " The fire
shall try every man's work of what sort it is."
Hers would perish, she knew that well. Highly
moral, highly relined and scholarly, but what
of its doubts, its shadows, its sorrows without
liope, its supernatural gloom ? Beth was a
master-artist in the field of gloom. She knew
how to make her readers shudder, but would
that story of hers bring more joy into the
world ? Would it sweeten life and warm
human hearts ? Ah, no ! And yet, could she
destroy it now, before its publication ? Could
she bear the thought of it ? She loved it almost
as a mother loves her child. A look of inde-
cision crossed her face. But, just then, she
seemed to hear the bells of heaven ringing forth
their sweet CJospel call. The bright sunshine
and the angel voices of a higher life seemed to
break in on her >'oul. In a moment — slie never
knew how it was — she became willing to sur-
render all. It was hardly a year since she had
said nay to Artluir, when he asked her t«>
lay her life at the f< .t of that same Jesus of
Nazareth. She refused then, and even «»in.'

THE HEAVEXLY CANAAX.

80

liour affo she would still have refused : but now
she would have trudged the highways, poverty-
stricken, unknown and obscure, for His dear
sake. She would have gone forth, like St. Paul,
to the uttermost ends of the earth, she felt she
loved Him so ! There were tears in her eyes,
and a new joy seemed to throb in her heart.
She felt so kindly to everyone about her. Wsm
it an impulse or what ? She laid her hand
softly on May Perth's as she sat beside her,
and May, looking into her eyes, seemed to read
her heart. She held her hand with a warm,
l(jving presjmre, and they were friends from
that hour.

Even the sunlight looked more golden when
Beth stepped out into it that afternoon. Every-
tliing liad cauglit a tint from the pearly gates,
for that hour bad been a turning-point in her
life. She had found the secret of life — the
secret of putting self utterly into the back-
ground and living for others' happiness ; and
they who find that secret have the key to their
own happiness. The old tinge of gloom in her
grey eyes passed away, and, instead, there came
into them the warmth and light of a new life.
They seemed to reach out over the whole world
with tender sympathy, like *a deep, placid sea,
with the sunlight gilding its depths.

86

BETH WOODBUUN.

" Beth, you are growing beautiful/' her fatlier
said to her one day ; and there were something
so reverential in his look that it touched her
too deeply to make her vain.

The four weeks that remained before the first
of October, when she was to return to college',
passed quickly. Clarence did not return, and
she heard that he had gone to England, intend-
ing to take his degree at Cambridge. The Ash-
leys, too, had left Briarstield, as Mr. Ashley had
secured a principalship east of Toronto. Betli
heard nothing more of Marie, though she would
so gladly have forgiven her now !

Beth soon became (juite absorbed in her new-
friend, May Perth. She told her one day of
her fancy that her face looked like a lily-cuj).
Mrs. Perth only laughed and kissed her, in her
sweet, unconscious way. Beth always loved to
kiss May Pertli's brow ; it was so calm and
fair, it reminded her of the white breast of li
dove.

Just three or four days before Beth was to go
away, Aunt Prudence came into her room at a
time when she was alone.

" Did you ever see this picture that Arthur
left in his room wlien he went away last fall ^ "
slie asked. ' T don't know whether he did it
hiiuwr^'If or not.'

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN.

87

She placed it in the light and left the room.
IVth reco(^nize<l it ahnost instantly.

" Why, it's that poem of mine that Arthur
liked best of all ! " she thought.

Yes, it was the very same — the grey rocks
rising one above another, the broad white shore,
and the lonely cottage, with the dark storm-
clouds lowering above it, and the fisherman's
l»nde «at the window, pale and anxious, her sunny
liiiir falling about her shoulders as she peered far
out across the sea — the black, storm-tossed sea —
;uid far out among the billows the tiny speck of
sail that never reached the shore. Beth was no
connoisseur of art, but she knew the picture
before her was intensely beautiful, even sublime.
There was something in it that made her feel.
It moved her to tears even as Arthur's music
had done. No need to tell her both came from
tlie same hand. Besides, no one else had seen
tliat poem but Arthur. And Arthur could paint
like this, and yet she had said he had not an
artist soul. She sighed faintly. Poor Arthur '
Perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. And
she laid the picture carefully away among her
treasures.

Her last evenino; at home soon came. It was
a clear, chilly night, and thry had a fire in the
drawirig-room grate. It was so cosy to sit

88

BETH WOODBURK.

there - itli her father, resting lier head on his
.slioulders, and watching the coals glowing in
the twilight.

" Beth, my child, you look so much happier
lately. Are you really so happy ? " he said,
after they had been talking for a while.

"Oh, I think life is so very happy!" said
Beth, in a buoyant tone. '* And when you love
Jesus it is so much sweeter, and somehow I like
everyone so much and everybody is so kind.
Oh, I think life is grand ! "

Dr. Woodburn w^as a godly man, and his
daughter's words thrilled him sweetly. He
brushed away a tear she did not see, and stooped
to kiss the young cheek resting on his coat-
sleeve. They were silent for a few moments.

" Beth, my dear," he said in a softer tone,
" Do vou know, I thoufdit that trouble last sum-
mer — over Clarence — was going to liurt you
more. How is it, Beth { "

She hesitated a moment.

" I don't believe I really loved him, father,"
she said, in a quiet tone, " I thought I did. I
thought it was going to break my heart that
night I found out he loved Marie. But, some-
how, I don't mind. I think it is far better as it
is. Oh, daddy, dear, it's so nice I can tell you
things like this. I don't believe all girls can talk

THE HEAVENLY (AX A AN.

89

to tlieii' fatliers this way. l^ut 1 — I always
wjinted to be loved — and Clarenci' was diHerent
from other people in Briar.sfield, you know, and
I suppose I thou<j^ht we were meant for each
other."

Dr. Woodlmrn did not answer at once.

" I don't think you would have been happy
with him, Beth," he sairl, ai'ter a little. "All
lias been for t! best. I was afraid you didn't
know what love meant when you became
cn^oifijed to him. It was only a school-j^irl's
fancy.

" Beth, I am ^i^oing to tell you somethinj^^" he
said a moment later, as he stroked her hair.
" People believe that I always took a special
interest in Arthur Grafton because his father
saved my life when we were boys, but that was
not the onl}^ reason I loved him. Years ago,
down along the Ottawa river, Lawrence (jrrafton
was pastor in the town where I had my first
practice. He was a grand fellow, and we were
the ofreatest friends. I used to take him to see
my patients often. He was just the one to cheer
them up. Poor fellow ! Let's see, it's seven-
teen years this fall since he died. It was the
tirst summer I was there, and Lawrence had
driven out into the country with me to see a
sick patient. When we were coming back, he

90

|{KTH WOODBUUN'.

asked me to stop witli him at si farm-house,
wlieiv Hom(! memlxTs of his churcli lived. I
remember the pUice as if I had .seen it yesterday,
an old red ])rick 1>uildiii^', with honeysuckle
climbin<^^ about the poi'ch and cherry-trees on the
lawn. The front dooi' was open, and there was
a flit^ht of stairs ri^dit opposite, and while we
waited for an answer to the bell a beautiful
woman, tall and ^"raceful, paused at the head of
the stairs above us, and then came down. To
my eyes she was the most beautiful woman I
had ever seen, Beth. She was dressed in white,
and had a basket of flowers on herrr-a. She
smiled as she came towards us. He' air was
glossy-black, parted in the middle, a: laDing in
waves about her smooth white ^.' , liead ; but
lier eyes were her real beauty, I never saw any-
tliino- like them, Beth. They ',v'"ere such great,
dark, tender eyes. They seemed to have worlds
in them. It was not long before I loved Florence
Waldon. I loved her." His voice liad a strange,
deep pathos in it. " She was kind to me always,
but I hardly dared to hope, and one day I saw
her bidding good-bye to Lawrence. It was only
a look and a hand-clasp, but it was a revelation
to me. I kept silent about my love from that
hour, and one evening; Lawrence came to mv
rooms.

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN'.

01

"Congratulate me, Arthur." he cried, in a
tojie that bubbled over with joy. I knew what
was coming, but the merciful twili;:;ht concealed
my face. ' Con<^ratulate me, Arthur! I am
(^n)ing to marry Florence Waldon next month,
and you must be best man.'

" I did congratulate him from tin; depth of my
heart, and I was best man at the we<lding: and
when their little son was born thev named him
Arthur after me. He is the Arthur Grafton
you have known. But poor Lawrence ! Little
Arthur w^as only a few Uionths old wlien she
took sick. They called me in, and I did all I
could to save her, but one night, as Lawrence
and I stood by her bedside — it was a wild March
night, and the wind was moaning through the
shutters while she slept — suddeidy she opened
her eyes with a bright look.

*"0h, Lawrence, listen, they are singing !' she
cried, 'it is so beautiful; I am going home — good-
bye— take care of Arthur,' and she was gone."

Dr. Woodburn paused a moment, and his
breath came faster.

" After that I came to Briarsfield and met
your mother, Beth. She seemed to understand
from my face that I had suffered, and after we
had become friends I told her that story, that I
had never told to mortal before or since till now.

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BETII WOODBURN.

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She was so very tender, and I saw in her face
that slie lovel nie, and by-and-by I took her to
wife, and she healed over tlie wound with lier
|(entle liands. She was a sweet woman, Betli.
God bless her memory. But the strange part of
the story is, Florence Waldon's brother, (Jartli
had settled on that farm over there, the other
side of the pine-wood. She had two other
brothers, one a talented editor in the States, the
other a successful lawyer. Garth, too, was a
bright, original fellow ; he had a high standard
of farm life, and he lived up to it. He was a
^ood man and a truly refined one, and when
poor Lawrence died he left little Arthur — lie
was three years old then — to him. The dear
little fellow ; he looked so much like his mother.
He used to come and hold you in his arms when
you were in long dresses, and then, do you
remember a few years later, when your own
sweet mother died, how he came to comfort you
and filled your lap with flowers ? "

Yes, Beth remembered it all, and the tears
were running down her cheeks as she drooped
her head in silence. The door-bell broke the
stillness just then. Dr. Woodburn was wanted.
Bidding Beth a hasty but tender good-bye, he
hurried oft' at the call of duty. Beth sat gazing
at the coal-tire in silence after her father left.

THE HEAVENLY CANAAN.

93

poor dear old fatliorl WImt a toucliiiif,' story
it was! He iimst have suffered so, and yet he
lia<l huried his sorrow and <^one about his work
with smiling face. Brave, heroic soul ! Beth
fell to picturing; it all over aj^ain with that
brilliant imagination of hers, until she seemed
to see the tall woman, with her Ix'autiful dark
t'ves and hair, coming down the stairs, just as he
had seen her. She seemed to hear the March
winds moan as he stepped out into the night
iind left the beautiful young wife, pale in death.
Then she went to the window and looked out at
the stars in the clear sky, and the meadow
tinged with the first frost of autuimi ; and the
pine-wood to the north, with the nuxm hanging
like a crescent of silver above it. It was there,
at that window, Arthur had asked her to be his
wife. Poor Arthur I She was glad her father
(lid not know. It would have pained him to
think she had refused the son of tlie woman he
had loved.

Beth lingered a little, gazing at the clear
frosty scene before her, then rose with a firm
look on her face and went n\) to her room.
There was one thing niore to be done before she
left home to-morrow. She ha«l resolved upon
it. It was dark in her room, but she neede<l no
light to recognize that roll of numusqript in hci*

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94

BETH WOODBURN.

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drawer. She hesitated a moment as she touched
it tenderly. Must she do it ? Yes, ah, yea :
Slje could not publish that story now. Just
then the picture of Arthur seemed to flash
through her mind, reading it and tossing it
down with that cold, silent look she had some-
times seen on his face. It was dark in the hall
as she carried it down to the drawing-room
grate. She crouched down on the hearth-rug
before the coals, and a moment later the flames
that played among the closely-written sheets
lighted her face. Nothing but a blackened
parchment now for all that proud dream of
fame ! The room grew dark again, and only
the coals cracking and snapping, and the steady
ticking of the old clock on the mantel-piece
above her head, broke the stillness. It was done.
She went to the window and knelt down.

" Father, I have sacrificed it for Thee. Take
this talent Thou hast given me and use it for Thy
honor, for I would serve Thee alone. Father."

She slept that night with a smile on her lips.
Yes, friend, it was a hero's deed, and He who
alone witnessed it hath sealed her brow with a
light such as martyrs wear in heaven. As for
the world, oh, that every book filled with dark
doubts and drifting fears and shuddering gloom
had perished, too, in those flames !

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VARSITY AGAIN.

95

CHAPTER IX.

'VARSITY AGAIN.

In a few days Betli was settled again at Mrs.
Owen's, on St. Mary's Street, and trippinfij to
her lectures as usual. Marie was not there, of
course, and Beth knew nothing of her where-
abouts. In fact, there had been a complete
change of boarders. The house was filled with
'Varsity girls this year, with the exception of
Marie's old room, a change which Beth appre-
ciated. One of the girls was a special friend of
hers, a plump, dignified little creature whom
most people called pretty. Hers was certainly a
jolly face, with those rosy cheeks and laughing
brown eyes, and no one could help loving Mabel
Clayton. She belonged to the Students' Volun-
teer Movement, and as this was her last year
at college, Beth thought sometimes a little sor-
rowfully of the following autumn when she was
to leave for India.

96

BETH WOODBl RN.

w

Beth meant to have hor spend a few days at
Briarsfield with her next summer. But a ^ood
many things were to happen to Beth before tlie
next summer passed. A Victoria student was
occupying Marie's old room, ])ut as he took liis
meals out of the house Beth never even saw
him. One of the girls who saw him in the b.ali
one day described him as "just too nice looking
for anything," but Beth's interest was not
aroused in the stranger.

That was a golden autumn for Beth, the
happiest by far she had ever known. 8he was
living life under that sweet plan of beginning
every day afresh, and thinking of some little
act of kindness to be done. Beth soon began
to believe the girls of University College were
the very kindest iii the world ; but she would
have been surprised to hear how often they
remarked, ** Beth Woodburn is always so kind I"
There was another treat that she was enjoying
this year, and that was Dr. Tracy's lectures.

" I think he is an ideal man," she remarked
once to Mabel Clayton. " I'm not in love with
him, but I think he's an ideal man."

Mabel was an ardent admirer of Dr. Tracy's,
too, but she could not help laughing at Beth's
statement.

" You are such a hero- worshipper, Beth ! " she

VARSITY AGAIN.

97

said. " You put a person up on a pedestal, and
then endow him with all the virtues under the
sun." ^

A peculiar look crossed Heth's face. She
remembered one whom she had placed on the
jH'destal of genius, and the idol had fallen,
shattered at her feet.

She was still the same emotional Beth. There
were times when without any outward cause,
seemingly from a mere overflow of happiness,
she almost cried out, " Oh stay, happy moment,
till I drink to the full my draught of joy ! "

Arthur's painting hung above Beth's study
table, and sometimes a shadow crossed her face
as she looked at it. She missed the old friend-
ship, and she wondered, too, that she never met
him anywhere.

Beth did not go home at Thanksgiving that
year, and she almost regretted it the evening
Itefore. She was a little homesick for " daddy,"
and to dispel her loneliness she shut up her
hooks and went to bed early. Her head had
scarcely touched the pillow when, hark ! there
was a sound of music in tlie drawing-room
down-stairs. She rose in bed to listen, it was
so like Arthur's music. She was not at all
familiar with the piece, but it thrilled her some-
liow. There was a succession of sweet, mellow
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BETH WOODIJURN.

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notes at first ; tlien lii^her, higher, liiglier,
broader, deeper, fuller, it was bearing lier very
soul away ! Then sweeter, sol'ter, darker, tint
of gold and touch of shadow, the tears were
standing in her eyes ! Clearer again, and more
triumphant ! Her lips parted as slie listened.
One sweet prolonged swell, and it died away.
She listened for more, but all was silent. She
looked out of the window at the stars in the
clear sky, and the dark shadow of St. Michacl'H
tower on the snow-covered college roof, then
fell back among the pillows to sleep and dream.
She was walking again on the old path by
the road-side at home, just as she used to go
every evening for the milk. The dusk was
deepening and she began to hurry, when slic
noticed a tall, dark figure ahead. As she drew
nearer she recognized Arthur's broad shoulders
and well-set head. Then a strange, indefinable
fear seized her. She did not want to overtake
him, to meet him face to face. She tried to
slacken her steps, but a mysterious, resistless
wind seemed to bear her forward against her
wnll. Not a leaf stirred. All was still around
her, and yet that uncanny, spirit-like wind urged
her on. She struggled, and although Arthur
never looked back, she felt that he knew all
about her struggles. At last she made one

'varsity AfJAIX.

99

mighty effort and tore herself free. She took
the path on the other side of the road. It
was all quiet then', and she walked on slowly.
The darkness grew thicker, and she lost sight of
Arthur. Then the country hecanie (juite new to
her. There were bridges every little way — old
I'ickety bridges, that creaked beneath lier step,
with holes where she caught her feet, and she
could hear the great wild torrents rushing below
in the darkness. She grew frightened. Oh,
l»ow she wished Arthur were there ! Then sud-
denly it grew lighter, and she saw that her path
was turning, and lo ! there was Arthur ! A
moment more and their paths would meet.
He reached the spot a few steps before her, and
turning, looked at her just once, but she saw in
his look that he knew all that had passed in her
heart. " P'oUow^ me," he said, with a tender
look ; and she followed in silence where the path
led between the steep, high banks, where strange
flowers were clinging in the dim light. She
was quite content now% not frightened any
longer. Then the bank opened by their path-
way, and he led her Into a strange, sandy, desert-
looking place. They entered a shadowy tent,
and in the dim light she could see strange faces,
to whom Arthur was talking. No one noticed
her, but she did not feel slighted, for though he

100

BETH WOODHURN.

did not look at her, hIic felt that he was think-
ing of her. Then suddenly the .strange faces
vanislied, and she was alone with Arthur. He
came toward her with such a beautiful smile,
and there was something in his hand of bright
gold — the brightest gold she had ever seen. It
was a golden spear with a tiny ring on one end
and a mass of chain hanging to it ; but lo ! when
she looked around her she saw it had filled the
place with a beautiful mystic light, a golden halo.
Then he drew her nearer, nearer to his bosom,
and in a moment she felt the spear point touch
her heart ! An instant of })ain, then it pierced
her with a deep, sweet thrill. She felt it even
to her finger tips. She awoke with a start, but
she could almost feel that thrill even after she
was awake. She could not sleep again quickly,
but lay watching the stars and the moonlight
growing paler on her book -case. Sleep came at
length, and when she awoke again it was at the
sound of Mr. Owen's jolly " Heiglio ! Everybody
up ! Everybody up ! " This was a way he had
of waking the children in good time for break-
fast, and it had the merit of always arousing the
boarders, too. Beth naturally supposed that the
musician she had heard the night before had
been a caller, and so made no enquiries.

The following Sunday evening Beth went to

VARSITY AOAIX.

101

cliurcli alone. It \va.s only three or four blocks
up to the Central, and Beth was never timid.
She did not look around tlu' churcli nuieh, or
she would have recoj^nized a familiar face on the
east side. It was Clarence May fair's; he was
paler than usual, and his li^ht curly hair looked
almost artificial in the j^asli^jht. There was
something sadder and more manly in his ex])res-
sion, and his eyes were fixed on Beth with a
reverent look. How pure she was, he thou«(ht,
how serene; her brow Uxjked as thou«^h an aui^^el-
hand had smoothed it in her shnnber. She
seemed to breathe a benediction on everythinj^
around her ; she reminded him of an inuij^e of
an angel bending in prayer, that he had seen in
one of the old cathedral windows across the sea.
And yet, after knowing a woman like that, he
had fancied he could — even fancied he did — love
Marie de Vere. What folly had blinded him
then, he wondered ? Marie had her charms, to
be sure, with those dark, bewitching eyes of
hers, so kind and sympathetic, so bright and
witty and entertaining. But there was some-
thing about Marie that was Heeting, something
about Beth that was abiding; Marie's charms
bewitched while she was present and were soon
forgotten, but Beth's lingered in the memory
and deepened with the years. It was well, after

102

DKTII WO(>DHruN.

all, lui tlnm;^ht, tluit Murif had rufusccl his otfiT
of inan'ia;^f that morning Ik; roct'ive«l Beth's
note, and went to her in the heat of hi.s passion.
He was but a boy then, and yet it was only a
few months a<^o. What was it that hadchan^^tvl
him from boyhood to manhood so suddenly {
He di<l not try to answer the <iuestion, but oidy
felt conscious of the chanj^e within. He realized
now that he had never kncnvn what it meant to
love. Marie had shed her lustre on him as sin*
passed ; Beth he had never fully couiprehemled.
He ha<l a dim feelin<^ that she was somehow too
high for him. But would this reverence he felt
for her ripen into love with the maturer years
of his manhood ? We never can tell the changes
that time will weave in these hearts of ours. It
is to be feared Clarence was not a very attentive
listener throughout the service that night. At
the close he waited for Beth in tlie moonlight
outside, but she did not notice him till he was
right beside her.

" Clarence I " she exclaimed, in a tone of
astonishment. " Why, I thought you were in
England."

" So I was ; but I am back, you see."

" I thought you were going to take a year at
Cambridge."

" I did intend to, but I found it too expensive.

y

VARSITY AOAIX.

103

l)('.si<leH, I tl»<)U«;Iit I woiiMn't liotlier HiiiHhin^
iiiv eoursr. I am «loinir sonu' work ulouir the
jtninmli.stic liiu' at }>n'.sriit. I just canu* to
Toronto last nij^lit, ami intoml to loavc TiU'S<lay
or Wo<lm's<lay."

Ill tlir first inoinciit of licr surprise slie ha<l
forgotten everything exeept that Chirence was
an old friend from home; hut now, as lu? walked
I M 'side her, it all came hack like a Hash — tlie
memory of that ni^ht last sunniier when she
lia<l seen him last. She <^rew sud<U?nly silent
and emharrassed. She longed to ask him about
^hirie; she wondered if they were en<^a^ed, and
if so where she was, but she soon controlled her-
self and asked him about his trip to England,
about his mother, about his work, about Editli
and everything else of possible or impossible
interest. She was relieved, without knowing
why, that it was only a few blocks to her
l)oarding-place. He lingered a moment as he
said good-night, an<l something in liis look
t(juched her a little. Only the stirring of old
memories. She hardly knc' whether she was
pleased or not to meet him again ; but as she
entered her room in the darkness her dream
seemed to flasli acro^3s her memory and a tender
voice said, " Follow me."

Clarence strolled a little way into the park,

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BETH WOODIJUKX.

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pondering on the past. He had never asked
Beth for an explanation of her farewell note.
He naturally supposed that Arthur Grafton had
gone directly to her that night and caused the
rupture. He wondered if Arthur were in love
with her. Then he turned suddenly and walked
back by St. Mary's Street to Yonge. The street
was almost deserted ; there was only one figure
in sight, a tall man drawing nearer. There was
No. — , where he had left Beth at the door. He
had just passed a few more doors when a fandliar
voice startled him. It was Arthur (Jrafton !
Clarence felt ill at ease for a moment, but
Arthur's tone was so kind it dispelled his em-
barrassment. They talked for a few moments,
then parted ; and Clarence, looking back a
moment later, saw Arthur ring the bell at
Beth's boarding-place. A peculiar look, almost
a sneer, crossed his face for a moment.

" Ah, he is going in to spend the evening with
his beloved," he thought.

And Clarence resolved, then and there, not to
call on Beth the following day, as he had in-
tended.

But Arthur proceeded absently to the room
Marie had formerly occupied, without the slight-
est idea that Beth had lived in the house with
him nearly two months. It was strange, but

'vARSltY AGAN.

105

tliough he had seen all the other girls in the
house he had never seen Beth. He had not en-
(jiiired her address the year before, not wishing
to know. He wished to have nothintr to do with
Clarence Mayfair's promised wife. She was
nothing to him. Should he encourage the love
he felt for another's wife ? No ! He had loved
with all the strength of that love that comes
but once to any human heart, and he had suf-
fered as only the strong and silent can suffer :
but he had resolved to bury his pain, and it
had given his face a sterner look. So he lay
down to rest that night all unconscious that
Beth was in the room just overhead ; that he
had heard her footsteps daily, even listened to
her humming little airs to unrecognizable tunes ;
but the sight of Clarence Mayfair had aroused
the past, and he did not sleep till late.

The following afternoon, as Beth sat studying
in her room after lectures, she heard a faint
tap at her door, a timid knock that in some
way seemed to appeal strangely to her. She
opened the door — and there stood Marie ! In
the first moment of her surprise Beth forgot
everything that had separated them, and threw
both arms about her in the old child-like way.
She seated her in the rocker by the window and
they talked of various things for a while, but

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106

BETH WO«)DUUUN.

Beth noticed, now and then, an uneasy look in
her eyes.

" She has come to tell me she is going to
marry Clarence, and she finds it difficult, poor
girl," thought Beth, with a heart full of
sympathy.

" Beth," said Marie at last, " I have wronged
you. I have come here to ask you to forgive me."

Beth belonged to the kind of people who are
always silent in emergencies, so she only looked
at her with her great tender eyes, in whicli
there was no trace of resentment.

"I came between you and Clarence Mayfair.
He never loved me. It was only a fancy. I
amused and interested him, I suppose. That
was all. He is true to you in the depths of his
heart, Beth. It was my fault — all my fault.
He never loved me. It was you he loved, but I
encouraged him. It was wrong, I know."

Something seemed to choke her for a moment.

" Will you forgive me, Beth ? Can you ever
forgive ? "

She was leaning forward gracefully, her fur
cape falling back from her shoulders and her
dark eyes full of tears.

Beth throw both arms about her old
friend tenderly, forgetting all the bitter
thoujjhts she had once had.

VARSITY AGAIN.

107

"Oh, Marie, dear, I love you — I love you still,
or course I forgive you."

Then Beth told her all the story of the past,
and of that ni<^ht when she had learned that
Clarence did not love her, of her wounded
vanity, her mistaken belief in the genuineness
of her own love for him, and her iirailual
awakening to the fact th.it it was not love after
all.

" Then it wasn't Mr. Grafton at all who made
the trouble?" interrupttnl Marie.

" Mr. Grafton ? Why, no ! What could he
have to do with it ? "

" Oh, nothing. We thought, at least Clarence
thought, he made the trouble."

Beth looked mystilied, but Marie only con-
tinued in a softene<l tone :

'* I am afraid you don't know y(jur own heart,
dear Beth. You will come together again, and
all will be forgotten."

" No, Marie, never ! The past was folly. All
is better as it is."

A pained look that Beth could not fathom
drifted across Marie's brow. " You think so
now, but you will change," she said.

A knock at the door interrupted them just
then, as Mrs. Owen announced a friend of
Beth's.

108

BETH WOODBURN.

Marie kissed her gently.

" Good-bye, Beth," she said in her sweet low
voice, and there was a tender sadness in her
dark eyes. Beth did not know its meaning at
the time, but a day was coming when she
would know.

Beth saw nothing more of Clarence during
his few days in the city. She wondered some-
times if Marie had seen him, but though they
saw each other occasionally during the rest of
the winter, neither of them mentioned his name.

That week had seemed eventful in Beth's
eyes, but it was more eventful even than she
thought. The following Saturday, after tea, as
Beth and Mabel Clayton were going back
upstairs, Beth had seated Mabel by force on the
first step of the second flight to tell her some
funny little story. Beth was in one of her
merry moods that night. Beth was not a wit,
but she had her vein of mirth, and the girls
used to say she was growing livelier every day.
The gas was not lighted in the hall, but Beth
had left her door open and the light shone out
on the head of the stairs. A moment later they
started up with their arms about each other's
waist.

" Oh, Beth, I left that note-book down stairs.
Wait, I'll bring it up to you."

'varsity again.

109

Beth waited, standing in the light as her
friend scampered down again. She heard the
door of Marie's old room open, and a tall man
stepped into the hall, but as it was dark below
she could not see his face. She wondered,
though, why he stood so still, and she had a
consciousness that someone was looking at her.

Arthur Grafton — for it was he — stood for a
moment as if stunned. There she was — Beth
Woodburn ! The woman he — hush ! Clarence
May fair's promised wife ! She looked even
heautiful as she stood there in the light, with a
smile on her face and a pure white chrys-
anthemum at her throat.

"You needn't hurry so, Mabel dear. I can
wait," she said as her friend approached.

It was over a year since he had heard that
voice, and he had tried to believe his heart was
deadened to its influence ; but now to-night, at
the first sound, it thrilled him again with its
old-time music. A moment later she closed her
door and the hall was dark, and his heart began
to beat faster now that he grasped the truth.
He turned again to his room, filled with the soft
radiance of moonlight. He leaned back in his
study chair, his eyes closed ; he could hear the
students of St. Michael's chanting an evening
hymn, and an occasional cab rattled past in the

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110

BETH WOODBURN.

street below. He noted it as we note all little
details in our nioinents of liigh excitement.
Then a smile jijradually lighted up his face. Oli,
sweet love ! For one moment it seemed to be
mastering him. She was there. Hark ! Was
that her footstep overhead :* Oh, to be near
her — to touch her hand just once !

Then a stern, dark frown settled on his Ijrow.
He rose and paced the room with a sort of
frenzied step. What is she to you — Clarence
Mayfair's prom i.' id wife? Arthur Grafton,
what is she to you ? Oh, that love, deep fand
passionate, that comes to us but once ! Tliat
heart-cry of a strong soul for the one being it
has enshrined ! Sometimes it is gratified and
bears in after years its fruits, whether sweet or
bitter; or, again, it is crushed — lilighted in one
moment, perhaps — and we go forth as usual
trying to smile, and the world never knows,
never dreams. A few years pass and our hearts
grow numb to the pain, and we say we have for-
gotten— that love can grow cold. Cold ? Yes ;
but the cold ashes will lie there in the heart —
the dust of our dead ideal ! Would such a fate
be Arthur's ? No. There was no room in that
great pulsing heart of his for anything that was
cold— no room for the chill of forgetfulness.
Strive as he might, he knew he could never forget.
What then remained ? Ev^en in that hour a

VARSITY AGAIN.

Ill

holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to
hear the burdens and sorrows of others, he had
learned to cast all his care upon One who had
never forsaken him — even his unrequited love.
He laid it on the altar of his (iod, to bloom
afresh, a beauteous flower transplanted by the
River of Life, beyond the blight of envy
and of care — beyond, yet near enough to earth to
scatter its fragrance in blessings down upon the
head of her whom he — loved ! Dare he say that
word ? Yes, in a sweeter, holier sense than
Itefore, as one might love the beings of another
world. His face was cjuite calm as he turned on
the light to resume his studies, but before begin-
ning his work he looked a little sadly around the
room. Yes, he had spent pleasant hours there,
but he must leave now. It was better that the
same roof should not shelter them both: He
did not wish to see Beth Woodburn again, and
lie just remembered that a friend of his was
(roinff to vacate a room on the other side of the
park. He would take it early next week.

It was a week later, one afternoon, just before
tea, that Beth and Mabel Clayton were sitting
in the drawing-room with Mrs. Owen.

" Do you know any of the girls over at the
college who would like to get a roonj, Miss
Clayton ? "

" No, but I might find some one."

112

BETH WOODBURN.

" Mr. Grafton has moved out of his room for
some reason, I don't know what."

" Mr. — whom did yon say ? " asked Beth.

" Mr. Grafton. Did you know him ? A tall,
dark fellow ! Goes to Victoria. Quite good-
looking ! "

" Why, surely, can it be Arthur Grafton !
That's just who it is ! Why, how funny we
never met ea,ch other coming in and out ! "

" Did you know him, Beth ? " asked Mabel.
" I met him once or twice in the halls, but I
didn't know you knew him."

" Yes, I have known him ever since we were
children."

" Oh, then you have heard him play," said
Mrs. Owens. " He played for us Thanksgiving
eve. He's a splendid musician."

Beth felt just a tinge of disappointment that
night as she passed the closed door of the room
Arthur had occupied. She wondered why he
never tried to find her. It was unkind of him
to break the old friendship so coldly. It was not
her fault she could not love him, she thought.
She could never, never do that ! In fact, she
did not believe she would ever love any man.

" Some people are not made for marriage, and
I think I'm one of them." And Beth sighed
faintly and fell asleep.

J)EATH.

113

CIIAITKR X.

DEA TIf.

we were

Chuistmas Eve, and Beth was lionie for her
two weeks' holidays. It was just after tea, and
slie and her father thouj^lit the parlor decidedly
cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles
flaming among the holly over the mantel-piece.
1 1 seemed all the cosier because of the storm that
raged without. The sleet was beating against
the pane, and the win 1 came howling across the
Holds. Beth parted the curtains once, and
peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and
circling round.

" Dear ! such a storm ! I am glad you're not
out to-night, daddy."

Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed
her father a plate of fruit-cake she had made
herself.

"It's too If^^^ ty be good, but you mustn't
8

114

JJETII WOODIiUUN.

i 1

iind any fault. Just eat every bit of it down.
Oh, Kitty, stop ! "

They ha<l been crackintr walnuts on the
hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten was amusing
itself by scattering the shells over the carpet

Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's
feet.

" You look well after vour fall's work, Beth ;
hard study doesn't seen) to hurt you."

" I believe it agrees with me, father."

" Did you see much of Arthur while you were
in Toronto, Beth ? I was hoping you would
bring him home for the Christmas holidays."

" No, I never saw him once."

'* Never saw him once ! "

He looked at her a little sternly.

" Beth, what is the matter between you and
Arthur ^ "

Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth
drooped her head, but the bell had attracted her
father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her
head into the parlor in her unceremonious way.

" Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is
wuss, an' his wife's took down, too. They think
he's dyin'."

" Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this
dreadful storm. Let me go with you."

" Nonsense, child ! I must go. It's a matter

DEATH.

115

of life and death, perhapH. Help me on with
my coat, daughter, please. I've been out in
worse storms than this."

Beth thought her father looked so brave and
noble in that big otter overcoat, and his long
white beard flowing down. She opened the
door for him, and the hall light shone out into
the snow. She shuddered as she saw him
staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back
into the parlor. It seemed lonely there, and she
went on to the kitchen, where Aunt Prudence
was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always
a cheerful place at Christmas time. Beth's
fears seemed quieted, and she went back to the
parlor to fix another branch of holly about a
picture. Ding! Was any one else sick, she
wondered, as she went to answer the bell. She
opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth !
It was really she, looking so frail and fair in
her furs.

" Why, May, dear ! Wliat are you doing out
in this storm ? "

" Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried
to laugh, but the attempt was not exactly a
success.

Beth took her in to the fire, removed her
wraps, all matted with snow, and called to Aunt
Prudence for some hot tea.

116

IlKTII \V(MU)IUK\.

■ \y.

" Ih your father out to-ni^lit, Betli ^ " uskcil
Miiy.

" Yes, lie went away out to the Browns'. But
wherever liave you been ;* "

" I've been taking some Cln-istnias things to a
poor family about two miles out ia the coun-
try, and I didn't think tlie storm so very bad
wlien I started; lait I'm like the Irishman with
his children, I've * more'n I want ' — of sleet, at
any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."

" Mr. Perth away ! Where <' "

" Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two wed-
dings. They are friends of ours, and we didn't
like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she con-
tinued, with a sweet, affected little pout ; " he'll
not get back till afternoon, and it's Christmas,
too."

" Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right hero
with us to-night, and for dinner to-morrow.
Isn't that just fine ! " Beth was dancing around
her in child-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted,
smiling at her pleasure; and they sat on the
couch, chatting.

" Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the
Browns'."

" Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."

" Oh, isn't it dreadful ? They're so poor, too.
I don't believe they've a decent bed in the
house."

i

hKATH.

117

" Ei^^lit ! There, the clock just .struck. Father
ouj^ht to be hack. It was only a little after six
when he went out."

She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains,
hut the sleet beatin*^ harder and harder upon
the pane was her only answer.

" There he is now ! " she cried, as a step en-
tered the hall, and she rushed to meet him.

" Oh, <laddy, dear — why, father ! "

Her voice chan«^ed to wonder and fear. His
overcoat was go!ie and he seem :d a mass of ice
and snow. His beard was frozen toirether; his
breath came with a thick, husky sound, and he
looked so pale and exhausted. She led him to
the tire, and beiran removing his icy garments.
She was too frightened to be of much use, but
May's thoughtful self was flitting quietly around,
preparing a hot drink and seeing that the bed
was ready. He could not speak for a few
minutes, and then it w^as only brokenly.

" Poor creatures ! She had nothing over her
hut a thin quilt, and the snow blowing through
the cracks; and I just took off my coat— and
put it over her. I thought I could stand it."

Beth understood it now. He had driven
home, all that long way, facing the storm, after
taking off his warm fur overcoat, and he was
just recovering from a severe cough, too. She

118

liETIt WOODHUHN'.

trembled for its effect upon him. It went to
her heart to hear his liusky breathing as he sat
there trembling before the fire. They got him
to bed soon, and Aunt Prudence tramped througli
the storm for Dr. Mackay, the young doctor
who had started up on the other side of the
town. He came at once, and looked grave after
he had made a careful examination. There had
been some trouble with the heart setting in, and
the excitement of his adventure in the storm
had aggravated it. Beth remembered his having
trouble of that sort once before, and she thought
she read danger in Dr. Mackay 's face.

That was a long, strange night to Beth as she
sat there alone by her father's bedside. He did
not sleep, his breathing seemed so difficult. She
had never seen him look like that before — so
weak and helpless, his silvery hair falling back
from his brow, his cheeks flushed, but not with
health. He said nothing, but he looked at her
with a pitying look sometimes. What did it all
mean ? Where would it end ? She gave him
his medicine from hour to hour. The sleet beat
on the window and the heavy ticking of the
clock in the intervals of the storm sounded like
approaching footsteps. The v/ind roared, and
the old shutter creaked uneasily. The husky
breathing continued by her side and the hours

DEATH.

119

grew

longer. Oh, for tlie morning ! What
would the morrow bring ? She had promised
May to awaken her at three o'clock, but she
looked so serene sleeping with a smile on her
lips, that Beth only kissed her softly and went
hack to her place. Her father had fallen asleep,
and it was an hour later that she heard a gentle
step beside her, and May looked at her reproach-
fully. She went to her room and left May to
watch. There was a box on her table that her
father had left before he went out that eveninir,
and then she remembered that it was Christmas
morning. Christmas morning ! There was a
handsome leather-bound Bible and a gold watch
with a tiny diamond set in the back. She had
a choked feeling as she lay down, but she was
so exhausted she soon slept. It was late in the
morning when she awoke, and May did not tell
her of her father's fainting spell. Aunt Pru-
dence was to sit up that night. The dear old
housekeeper ! How kind she was, Beth thought.
She had often been amused at the (juaint, old-
fashioned creature. But she was a kind old soul,
in spite of her occasional sharp words.

Dr. Woodburn continued about the same all
the following day, saving that he slept more.
The next day was Sunday, and Beth slept a
little in the afternoon. When she awakened

120

liKTII WOODJJUUN.

m

'm'?

she heard Dr. Mackay going clown the hall, and
May came in to take her in her arms and kiss
her. She sat down on the bed beside Beth, with
tears in her beautiful eyes.

" Beth, your father has been such a good man.
He has done so much ! If God should call him
home to his reward, would you — would you
refuse to give him up ? "

Beth laid her head on May's shoulder, sobbing.

" Oh, May — is it — death ? " slie asked, in a
hoarse whisper.

" I fear so, dear."

Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its
way for a while, tlien drew her nearer to her heart.

" If Jesus comes for him, will you say ' no ' ? "

"His will be done," she answered, when she
grew calmer.

The next day lawyer Graham came and stayed
with Dr. Woodburn some time, and Beth knew
that all hope was past, but she wore a cheerful
smile in her father's presence during the few
days that followed — bright winter days, with
sunshine and deep snow. The jingle of sleigh-
bells and the sound of merry voices passed in
the street below as she liste* .d to the labored
breathing at her side. It was the last day of
the year that he raised his han<l and smoothed
her hair in his old-time way.

nEATII.

121

" Beth, I am going home. You liave been a
good daughter — my one great joy. (Jod bless
you, my child." He paused a moment. " You
will have to teach, and I think you had better
ffo back to coUefje soon. You'll not miss me
so much when you're working."

Beth pressed back her tears as she kissed him
silently, and he soon fell asleep. She went to
the window and looked out on it all — the clear,
cold night sky with its myriads of stars, the
brightly lighted windows and the snow-covered
roofs of the town on the hill-slope, and the Erie,
a frozen line of ice in the distant moonlight.
The town seemed unusually bright with lights,
for it was the gay season of the year. And,
oh, if she but dared to give vent to that sob
rising in her throat ! She turned to the sleeper
again ; a little later he opened his eyes with a
bright smile.

"In the everlasting arms," he whispered
faintly, then pointed to a picture of Arthur on
the table. Beth brou<jht it to him. He looked
at it tenderly, then gave it back to her. He
tried to say something, and she bent over him
to catch the w^ords, but all was silent there ; his
eyes were closed, his lips set in a smile. Her
head sank upon his breast. " Papa ! " she cried.

No answer, not even the sound of heart-

122

ftETII WOOIJBURN.

beats. There was a noiseless step at her side,
and she fell back, unconscious, into May's arms.
When she came to again she was in her own
room, and Mr. Perth was by her side. Then the
sense of her loss swept over her, and he let her
grief have its way for a while.

" My child," he said at last, bending over her.
How those two words soothed her ! He talked
to her tenderly for a little while, and she looked
much calmer wdien May came back.

But the strain had been too much for her, and
she was quite ill all the next day. She lay
listening to the strange footsteps coming and
going in the lialls, for everyone came to take a
last look at one whom all loved and honored.
There was the old woman whom he had helped
and encouraged, hobbling on her cane to give
him a last look and blessing ; there was the poor
man whose children he had attended free of
charge, the hand of whose dying boy he had
held ; there was the little ragged girl, who
looked up through her tears and said, " He was
good to me." Then came the saddest moment
Beth had ever known, when they led her down
for the last time to his side. She scarcely saw
the crowded room, the flowers that were strewn
everywhere.

It was all over. The last words were said.

i^EAtn.

12:^

and they led her out to the carriage. The sun
was low in the west that afternoon when the
Perths took her to the parsonage — " home to the
parsonage," as she always said after that. Aunt
Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she
went away to live with her married son,and Beth
never realized before how much she loved the
dear old creature who had watched over her from
her childhood. Just once before she returned to
college she went back to look at the old horae,
with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts on its
walks. She had thought her future was to be
spent there, and now where would her path be
guided ?

" Thou knowest, Lord," she said faintly.

124

HETII WOoniU'HN.

CHAPTER XL

LOVE.

In the soft fliisli of the following spring Beth
returned to the parsonage at Briarsfield. It was
so nice to see the open country again after the
city streets. Mr. Perth met lier at the station
just as the sun was setting, and there was a
curious smile on liis face. He was a little silent
on the way home, as if he had something on his
mind ; but evidently it was nothing unpleasant.
The parsonage seemed hidden among the apple-
blossoms, and Mrs. Perth came down the walk
to meet them, looking so fair and smiling, and
why — she had something white in her arms !
Beth bounded forward to meet her.

" Why, May, where did you — whose baby ?"
asked Beth, breathless and smiling.

" Who does she look like ? "

The likeness to May Perth on the little one-
month-old face was unmistakable.

LOVK.

1 25

" You naughty puss, why diilnt you tell me
when you wrote ?"

" Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr.
Perth. " Handsome baby, isn't it ? J.ust like
her mother ! "

'* What are you going to call her ?"

" Beth." Aijd May kissed her fondly as she
led her in.

What a pleasant week that was ! Life may
be somewhat desert-like, but there is many a
sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade
by the rippling water, with the flowers and the
birds about us.

One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by
herself down toward the lake, and past the old
Mayfair home. The family were still in Europe,
and the place, she heard, was to be sold. The
afternoon sunshine was beating on the closed
shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn
and terraces, and the weeds grew tall in the
flower-beds. Deserted and silent ! Silent as
that past she had buried in her soul. Silent
as those first throbs of her child-heart that she
had once fancied meant love.

That evening she and May sat by the window
watching the sunset cas^ its glories over the lake,
a great sheet of flame, softened by a w^rapping
of thin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling.

126

BETH VVOODHUllN.

Its?

fiery, triumphant, but half hidden by this hazy
veil of mortality.

" Are you going to write another story,
Beth ? "

" Yes, I thought one out last fall. I shall
write it as soon as I am rested."

" What is it — a love story ? " .

" Yes, it's natural to me to write of love ; and
yet — I have never been seriously in love."

May laughed softly.

" Do you know, I am beginning to long to love
truly. I want to taste the deep of life, even if
it brings me pain."

It was a momentary restlessness, and she re-
called those words before long.

Mr. Perth joined them just then. He was
going away for a week's holiday on the follow-
inff dav.

" I suppose you have a supply for Sunday,"
said Mrs. Perth.

" Yes, I have, I think he'll be a very good
one. He's a volunteer missionary."

" Where is he going ? " asked Beth.

" I don't know."

" I should like to meet him," and Beth paused
before she continued, in a quiet tone, "I am
going to be a missionary myself."

" Beth ! " exclaimed Mrs. Perth.

LOVE.

127

" I thought you were planning this," sjiid
Mr. Perth.

" Thouglit so ? How could you tell ? " asked
Beth.

" I saw it workiiifr in your mind. You are
easily read. Where are you going ? "

" I haven't decided yet. I only just decided
to go lately — one Sunday afternoon this spring.
I used to hate the idea."

Perhaps it was this little talk that made her
think of Arthur again that night. V^hy had he
never sent her one line, one word of sympathy
in her sorrow ? He was very unkind, when her
father had loved him so. Was that what love
meant ?

The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and
Beth did not even ask his name, as she supposed
it would be unfamiliar to her. The old church
seemed so home-like that Sunda}'. The first
sacred notes echocil softly down the aisles ; the
choir took their places ; then there was a
moment's solenui hush — and Arthur! Why,
that was Arthur going up into the pulpit ! She
could hardly repress a cry of surprise. For the
moment she forgot all her coldness and indiffer-
ence, and looked at him intently. He seemed
changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but
there was a delicate fineness about him she had

128

llETH WOODIUMIX.

I

never seen before, |)}irtieularly in liis eyes, u
mystery of pain and sweetness, ])len(l(!<l and
ripened into a more perfect manhood. Was
it because Arthur preached that sermon slie
thou<jjht it so i^a-and i No, everybody seemed
touclied. And this was the small boy who
had gone liazel-nutting witli lier, wdio liad
lieard lier geography, and, barefoot, carried
lier through the brook. But that was long,
long ago. They had changed since then. Be-
fore she realized it, the service was over, and
the people were streaming through the door-
way where Arthur stood shaking hands witli
the acquaintances of his childhood. There
was a soothed, calm expression on Bath's brow,
and her eyes met Arthur's as he touched her
hand. May thought she seemed a trifle sub-
dued that day, especially toward evening. Beth
had a sort of feeling that night that she would
have been content to sit there at the church
window for all time. There was a border of
white lilies about the altar, a sprinkling of
early stars in the evening sky ; solenm hush
and sacred music within, and the cry of some
stray night-bird without. There were gems
of poetry in that sermon, too ; little gleanings
from nature here and there. Then she remem-
bered how she had once said Arthur had not an

LOVE.

129

artist-soul. Was she mistaken ? Was lie one
of those men who bury their sentiments under
duties of every-day life ? Per-

men
practical

s so.

the
hapi

The next day she and May sat talking on the
sofa by the window.

" Don't you think, May, I should make a mis-
take if 1 married a man who had no taste for
literature and art?"

" Yes, I do. I believe in the old German
proverb, ' Let like and like mate together.' "

Was that a shadow crossed Beth's face ?

'* But, whatever you do, Beth, don't marry a
man who is all moonshine. A man may be
literary in his tastes and yet not be devoted to
a literary life. I think the greatest genius is
sometimes silent ; but, even when silent, he
inspires others to climb the heights that duty
forbade him to climb himself."

"You've deep thoughts in your little head,
May." And Beth bent over, in lover-like fashion,
to kiss the little white hand, but May had
dropped into one of her light-hearted, baby
moods, and playfully withdrew it.

" Don't go mooning like that, kissing my
dirty little hands ! One would think you had
been falling in love."

Beth went for another stroll that evening.
9

130

BETH WOODIJUHN.

She walked past the dear old house on the hill-
top. The shutters were no longer closed ; last
sunniier's flowers were blooming again by the
pathway ; strange children stopped their play
to look at her as she passed, and there were
sounds of mirth and music within. Yes, that
was the old home — home no longer now ! There
was her own old window, the white rosea
drooping about it in the early dew.

" Oh, papa ! papa ! look down on your little
Beth ! " These words were in her eyes as she
lifted them to the evening sky, her tears falling
silently. She was following the old path by
the road-side, wdiere she used to go for the milk
every evening, when a firm step startled her.

" Arthur !
you again

She looked beautiful for a moment, with the
tears hanging from her lashes, and the smile on
her face.

" I called to see you at the parsonage, but you
were just going up the street, so I thought I
might be pardoned for coming too.

They were silent for a few moments. It was
so like old times to be walking there together.
The early stars shone faintly, but the clouds
were still pink in the west; not a leaf stirred,
not a breath ; no sound save a night-bird calling

Good evening. I'm so glad to see

t »>

LOVE.

i:u

to its mate in the pine-wood yonder, and tlie
bleat of lambs in the diHtance. Presently
Arthur broke the silence with sweet, tender
words of sorrow for her loss.

"I should have written to you if I had known,
but I was sick in the hospital, and I didn't — "

" Sick in the hospital ! Why, Arthur, have
you been ill ? What was the matter? "

" A light typhoid fever. I went to the
Wesley an College, at Montreal, after that, so I
didn't even know you had come back to college."

" To the Wesleyan ? I thought you were so
attached to Victoria 1 Whatever made you
leave it, Arthur V

He flushed slightly, and evaded her question.

" Do you know, it was so funny, Arthur, you
roomed in the very house where I boarded last
fall, and I never knew a thing about it till
afterward ? Wasn't it odd we didn't meet ? "

Again he made some evasive reply, and she
had an odd sensation, as of something cold pass-
ing between them. He .suddenly became formal,
and they turned back again at the bridge where
they used to sit fishing, and where Beth never
caught anything (just like a girl) ; they always
went to Arthur's hook. The two forgot their
coldness as they walked back, and Beth was
disappointed that Arthur had an engagement

132

BETH WOODUUKX.

and could not come in. They lingered a
moment at the gate as he bade her good-night.
A delicate thrill, a something sweet and new
and strange, possessed her as he pressed her
hand ! Their eyes met for a moment.

" Good-bye for to-night, Beth."

May was singing a soft lullaby as she came
up the walk. Only a moment ! Yet what a
revelation a moment may bring to these hearts
of ours ! A look, a touch, and something live
is throbbing within ! We cannot speak it. We
dare not name it. For, oh, hush, 'tis a sacred
hour in a woman's life.

Beth went straight to her room, and sat by the
open window in the star-light. Some boys were
singing an old Scotch ballad as they passed in
the street below ; the moon was rising silvery
above the blue Erie ; the white petals of apple-
blossoms floated downward in the night air, and
in it all she saw but one face — a face with great,
dark, tender eyes, that soothed her with their
silence. Soothed ? Ah, yes ! She felt like a
babe to-night, cradled in the arms of something,
she knew not what — something holy, eternal and
calm. And this was love. She had craved it
often — wondered how it would come to her —
and it was just Arthur, after all, her childhood's
friend, Arthur — but yet how changed ! He was

LOVE.

133

not the same. She felt it dimly. The Arthur
of her girlhood was gone. They were man and
woman now. She had not known this Arthur
as he was now. A veil seemed to have been
suddenly drawn from his face, and she saw in
him — her ideal. There were tears in her eyes
as she gazed heavenward. She had thought to
journey to heathen lands alone, single-handed to
light the battle, and now — " Arthur — Arthur ! "
she called in a soft, sweet whisper as she drooped
her smiling face. What mattered all her blind
shilly-shally fancies about his nature not being
poetic ? There was more poetry buried in that
heart of his than she had ever dreamed. " I
can never, never marry Arthur ! " she had often
told herself. She laughed now as she thought of
it, and it was late before she slept, for she seemed
to see those eyes looking at her in the dark-
ness— so familiar, yet so new and changed ! She
awoke for a moment in the grey light just
before dawn, and she could see him still ; her
hand yet thrilled from his touch. She heard
the hoarse whistle of a steamer on the lake ;
the rooks were cawing in the elm-tree over the
roof, and she fell asleep again.

" Good-morning, Rip Van Winkle," said May,
when she entered the breakfast-room.

" Why, is that clock — just look at the time !

I.

f ,

M |V<^

^H''

134

BETH WOODBURN.

I forgot to wi my watch last night, and I
hadn't the fain ^, idea what time it was when I
got up this morning ! "

"Good-bye for to-night, Beth," he had said,
and he was going away to-morrow morning, so
he would surely come to-day. No wonder she
went about with an absent smile on her face, and
did everything in the craziest possible way. It
was so precious, this newly-found secret of hers I
She knew her own heart now. There was no
possibility of her misunderstanding herself in the
future. The afternoon was wearing away, and
she sat waiting and listening. Ding ! No, that
was only a beggar-woman at the door. Ding,
again ! Yes, that was Arthur ! Then she grew
frightened. How could she look into his eyes ?
He would read her secret there. He sat down
before her, and a formal coldness seemed to
paralyze them both.

" I have come to bid you good-bye. Miss
Woodburn ! "

Miss Woodburn ! He had never called her
that before. How cold his voice sounded in her
ears !

" Are you going back to Victoria College ? "
she asked.

" No, to the Wesleyan. Are you going to
spend your summer in Briarsfield ? "

LOVE.

135

" Most of it. I am going back to Toronto
for a week or two before 'Varsity opens. My
friend Miss de Vere is staying with some friends
there. She is ill and — "

" Do you still call her your friend ? " he inter-
rupted, with a sarcastic smile.

" Why, yes ! " she answered wonderingly,
never dreaming that he had witnessed that same
scene in the Mayfair home.

" You are faithful, Beth," he said, looking
graver. Then he talked steadily of things in
which neither of them had any interest. How
cold and unnatural it all was ! Beth longed to
give way to tears. In a few minutes he rose to
go. He was going ! Arthur was going I She
dared not look into his face as he touched her
hand coldly.

"Good-bye, Miss Woodburn. I wish you
every suocesu next winter."

She went back to the parlor and watched him
— under the apple trees, white with blossom,
through the gate, past the old church, around
the corner — he was gone ! The clock ticked
away in the long, silent parlor ; the sunshine
slept on the grass outside ; tlie butterflies were
flitting from flower to flower, and laughing
voices passed in the street, but her heart was
strangely still. A numb, voiceless pain ! What

it'i

136

ftETH WOODBURN.

|i:--^1

mS

did it mean ? Had Arthur changed ? Once he
had loved her. " God have pity ! " her white
lips murmured. And yet that look, that
touch last night — what did it mean ? What
folly after all ! A touch, a smile, and she had
woven her fond hopes together. Foolish
woman-heart, building her palace on the sands
for next day's tide to sweep away ! Yet how
happy she had been last night! A thrill, a
throb, a dream of bliss ; crushed now, all but
the memory ! The years might bury it all in
silence, but she could never, never forget. She
had laid her plans for life, sweet, unselfish plans
for uplifting human lives. Strange lands,
strange scenes, strange faces would surround
her. She would toil and smile on others, " but
oh, Arthur, Arthur — "

All through the long hours of that night she
lay watchi/ig ; she could not sleep. Arthur was
still near, the same hills surrounding them both.
The stars were shining and the hoarse whistle
of the steamers rent the night. Perhaps they
would never be so near again. Would they
ever meet, she wondered. Perhaps not! An-
other year, and he would be gone far across the
seas, and then, "Good-bye, Arthur! Good-bye!
God be with you ! "

PAHEWELt.

1.17

CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL.

„ ; ^,1

Beth's summer at Briarsfield parsonage
passed quietly and sweetly. She had seemed
a little sad at first, and May, with her woman's
instinct, read more of her story than she
thought, but she said nothing, though she
doubled her little loving attentions. The love
of woman for woman is passing sweet.

But let us look at Beth as she sits in the
shadow of the trees in the parsonage garden.
It was late in August, and Beth was waiting
for May to come out. Do you remember the
first time we saw her in the shadow of the trees
on the lawn at home ? It is only a little over
two years ago, but yet how much she has
changed ! You would hardly recognize the
immature girl in that gentle, sweet-faced lady
in her dark mourning dress. The old gloom

■' !

138

BETH WOODBURN.

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V >

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had drifted from her brow, and in its place was
sunlight, not the sunlight of one who had never
known suffering, but the gentler, sweeter light
of one who had triumphed over it. It was a
face that would have attracted you, that would
have attracted everyone, in fact, from the black-
gowned college professor to the small urchin
shouting in the street. To the rejoicing it said,
' T.et me laugh with you, for life is sweet ; " to
ti. Oi.Towing, 'I understand, I have suffered,
too. i. know what you feel." Just then her
sweet eyes were raised to heaven in holy
thought, " Dear heavenly Father, thou knowest
everything — how I loved him. Thy will be
done. Oh, Jesus, my tender One, thou art so
sweet ! Thou dost understand my woman's
heart and satisfy even its sweet longings.
Resting in Thy sweet presence what matter
life's sorrows ! "

She did not notice the lattice gate open and
a slender, fair- haired man pause just inside to
watch her. It was Clarence Mayfair. There
was a touching expression on his face as he
looked at her. Yes, she was beautiful, he
thought. It was not a dream, the face that he
had carried in his soul since that Sunday night
last fall. Beth Woodburn was beautiful. She
was a woman now. She was only a child when

11 1

FAREWELL.

13d

vvoman s

they played their little drama of love there in
Briarsfield. The play was past now ; he loved
her as a man can love but one woman. And
now — a s^hadow crossed his face — perhaps it
was too late !

" Clarence ! " exclaimed Beth, as he advanced,
" I'm glad to see you." And she held out her
hand with an air of graceful dignity.

*• You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I
suppose. I was so surprised to see you," she
continued.

" Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham's."

She noticed as he talked that he looked
healthier, stronger and more manly. Altogether
she thought him improved.

" Your father and mother are still in England,
I suppose," said she.

" Yes, they intend to stay with their relatives
this winter. As for me, I shall go back to
'Varsity and finish my course."

" Oh, are you going to teach ? "

" Yes ; there's nothing else before me," he
answered, in a discouraged tone.

She understood. She had heard of his father's
losses, and, what grieved her still more, she had
heard that Clarence was turning out a literary
failure. He had talent, but he had not the fresh,
original genius that this age of competition

m-

140

ftETtt WOODBURN.

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demands. Poor Clarence! She was sorry for
him.

" You have been all summer in Briarsfield ? "
he asked.

" Yes, but I am going to Toronto to-morrow
morning."

" Yes, I know. Miss de Vere told me she had
sent for you."

" Oh, you have seen her then ! "

" Yes, I saw her yesterday. Poor girl, she'll not
last long. Consumption has killed all the family."

Beth wondered if he loved Marie, and she
looked at him with her gentle, sympathetic eyes.
He caught her look and winced under it. She
gazed away at the glimpse of lake between the
village roofs for a moment.

" Beth, have you forgotten the past ? " he
asked, in a voice abrupt but gentle.

She started. She had never seen his face look
so expressive. The tears rose to her eyes as she
drooped her flushing face.

" No, I have not forgotten."

" Beth, I did not love you then ; I did not
know what love meant — "

" Oh, don't speak of it ! It would have been
a terrible mistake ! "

" But, Beth, can you never forgive the past ?
I love you now — I have loved you since — "

FAREWELL.

141

" Oh, hush, Clarence ! You must not speak of
love !" And she buried her face in her hands
and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward
slightly toward him, a tender look in her
eyes.

" I love another," she said, in a low gentle
voice.

He shielded his eyes for a moment with his
fair, delicate hand. It was a hard moment for
them both.

" I am so sorry, Clarence. I know what you
feel. I am sorry we ever met."

He looked at her with a smile on his saddened
face.

" I feared it was so ; but I had rather love
you in vain than to win the love of any other
woman. Good-bye, Beth."

"Good-bye."

He lingered a moment as he touched her hand
in farewell.

" God bless you," she said, softly.

He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and
she sat watching the fleecy clouds and snatches
of lake betw^een the roofs. Poor Clarence ! Did
love mean to him what it meant to her ? Ah,
yes ! she had seen the pain written on his brow.
Poor Clarence ! That night she craved a bless-
ing upon him as she knelt beside her bed. Just

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1

142

liETH WOODBURN.

then he was wandering about the weed-grown
lawns of his father's house, which looked more
desolate than ever in the light of the full moon.
It was to be sold th^ following spring, and he
sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side-
Right there on that little cliff he had asked
Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but for that
fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might
have been ? And yet it was better so — better
for her — God bless her. And the thought of her
drew him heavenward that night.

The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto
to see Marie. She was in a pensive mood as she
sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands
stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides
checkered by the sunlight shining through their
boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion
in a few hours' travel, and Beth found herself
drawn from her thoughts by the antics of a
negro family at the other end of the car. A
portly colored woman presided over them ; she
had ** leben chilen, four dead and gone to glory,"
as she explained to everyone who questioned
her.

It was about two o'clock when Beth reached
Toronto, and the whirr of electric cars, the
rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city
street would all have been pleasantly exciting

FAREWELL.

143

to her young nerves but for her thoughts of
Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city
to spend her last days, but it was quiet on Gren-
ville Street, where she was staying with her
friends, the Bar trams. Beth was, indeed, struck
by the change in lier friend when she entered
the room. She lay there so frail and shadow-
like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken,
though flushed ; but her eyes had still their old
brilliancy, and there was an indefinable gentle-
ness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as
she stooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very
considerate, and left them alone together as much
as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood
that day. Her breath came with difficulty, and
she seemed content to hold Beth's hand and smile
upon her, sometimes through tears that gathered
silently. Bright, sparkling Marie ! They had
not been wont to associate tears with her in the
past. It was a pleasant room she had, suggestive
of her taste — soft carpet and brightly-cushioned
chairs, a tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the
stand, and a glimpse of Queen's Park through
the open window. The next day was Sunday,
and Beth sat by Marie while the others went to
church. They listened quietly to the bells peal
forth their morning call together, and Beth
noted with pleasure that it seemed to soothe

WT

144

»ETH WOODHUKN.

Ill

ill

lilt ;,

ml
lit:

Marie us she lay witli closed eyes and a half
smile on her lips.

" Beth, you have heen so much . me this
summer. Your letters were so sweet. You
are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she
stroked Beth's hair softly with her frail, wasted
hand.

"Do you remember when I used to pride
myself on my unbelief ? " Her breath failed
her for a moment. " It is past now," she con-
tinued, with a smile. " It was one Sunday ; I
had just read one of your letters, nd I felt
somehow that Jesus had touched I am

ready now. It was hard, so hard ac first, to
give up life, but I have learned at last to say
' His will be done.' "

Beth could not speak for the sob she had
checked in her throat.

" Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I
want to talk to you, dear. You remember the
old days when that trouble came between you
and — and Clarence. I was a treacherous friend
to you, Beth, to ever let him speak of love to
me. I was a traitor to — "

" Oh, hush ! Marie, darling, don't talk so,"
Beth pleaded in a sobbing tone.

" I mitst speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous
to you. But when you know what I suffered — "

p!;a;

FAREWELL.

145

rl a half

me this
>t. You
\nd she
I, wasted

to pride
h failed
she con-
nday ; I
a I felt
I am
first, to
to say

she had

iday. I
iber the
een you
s friend
love to

ilk so,"

,cherous
ered— "

Her breath failed a^faiu for a moment. " I loved
him, Both," she whispered.

" Marie ! " There was silence for a moment,
broken only by Marie's labored breathinj^. " I
loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It
was only a fancy of his. I ha<l charmed him for
the time, but I knew when I was gone his heart
would go back to you — and now, Beth, I am
dying slowly, I ask but one thing more. I have
sent for Clarence. Let everything be forgotten
now ; let me see you happy together just as it
was before."

" Oh, hush, Marie ! It cannot be. It can
never be. You know I told you last fall that I
did not love him."

" Ah, but that is your pride, Beth ; all your
pride ! Listen to me, Beth. If I had ocn years
more to live, I would give them all to see you
both happy and united."

Beth covered her face with her hands, as her
tears flowed silently.

" Marie, I must tell you all," she said, as she
bent over her. "I lov^e another: I love Arthur!"

" Arthur Grafton ! " Marie exclaimed, and
her breath came in quick, short gasps, and there
was a pained look about her closed eyes. Beth
understood she was grieved for the disappoint-
ment of the man she loved.
10

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PA

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146

BETH WOODIiURN.

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" And you, Beth — are you liappy ? Does he
— Arthur, I mean — love you ? " slie asked, with
a smile.

" No. He loved me once, the summer before
I came to college, but he is changed now. He
was in Briarsfield this suii^mer for a few days,
but I saw he was changed. He was not like the
same Arthur — so changed and cold." She sat
with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay
watching her. " Only once I thought he loved
me," she continued : " one night when he looked
at me and touched my hand. But the next day
he was cold again, and I knew then that he
didn't love me any more."

Marie lay for a few moments with a very
thoughtful look in her eyes, but she made no
remark, and, after a while, she slept from weak-
ness and exhaustion.

Beth went out for a few i:ours next morning,
and found her very much weaker when she
returned. Mrs. Bartram said she had tired her-
self writing a letter. She had a wide-awake air
as if she were watching for something, and her
ear seemed to catch every step on the stair- way.
It was toward the close of day.

" Hark ! who's that ? " she asked, starting.

" Only Mrs. Bartram. Rest, dearest," said
Beth.

FAREWELL.

147

Does he
3(1, with

r before
>w. He
w days,
like the
She sat
arie lay
le loved
3 looked
text day
that he

a very
[lade no
weak-

loriiing,
len she
d her-
vake air
ind her
ir-way.

■Ang.
J," said

But the brilliant eyes were fixed on the
door, and a moment later Clarence entered the
room. Marie still held Beth's hand, but her
dark eyes were fixed on Clarence with a look
never to be forgotten.

" You have come at last," she said, then fell
back on her pillows exhausted, Imt smiling, her
eyes closed.

He stood holding the frail hand she had
stretched out to him, then the dark eyes opened
slowly, and she gazed on him with a yearning
look.

*' Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall
die happier," she said, softly. " Oh, Clarence, I
loved you ! I loved you ! It can do no harm to
tell you now. Kiss me just once. In a moment
I shall be with my God."

Beth had glided from the room, and left her
alone with the man she loved ; but in a few
minutes he called her and Mrs. Bartram to the
bed-side. Marie was almost past speaking, but
she stretched forth her arms to Beth and drew
her young head down upon her breast. There
was silence for a few minutes, broken only by
Marie's hoarse breathing.

" Jesus, my Redeemer," her pale lips mur-
mured faintly, then tlie heart-throbs beneath
Beth's ear were still ; the slender hand fell help-

If ■

IS' "^

148

BETH VVOODBURN.

iii:",

less on the counterpane; the brilliant eyes were
closed ; Marie was gone !

When Beth came to look at her again she lay
smiling in her white, flowing garment, a single
lily in her clasped hands. Poor Marie ! She
had loved and suffered, and now it was ended.
Aye, but she had done more than suffer. She
had refused the man she loved for his sake and
for the sake of another. Her sacrifice h«d been
in vain, but the love that sacrificed itself —was
that vain ? Ah, no ! Sweet, brave Marie !

Her friends thought it a strange request of
hers to be buried at Briarsfield, but it was
granted. Her vast wealth — as she had died
childless — went, by the provisions of her father's
will, to a distant cousin, but her jewels she left
to Beth. The following afternoon Mr. Perth
read the funeral service, and they lowered the
lovely burden in the shadow of the pines at the
corner of the Briarsfield church-yard. There
in that quiet village she had first seen him she
loved. After all her gay social life she sought
its <|uiet at last, and the stars of that summer
night looked down on her new-made grave.

The following day Mr. Perth laid a colored
envelope from a large publishing firm in Beth's
lap. They had accepted her last story for a
good round sum, accompanied by most flatter-

FAREWELL.

149

iS were

she lay
[, single
! She
ended,
r. She
ike and
^d been
If —was
ie!

(uest of

it was

id died

father's

she left

Perth

ed the

at the

There

im she

I sought

luminer

^e.

iolored

Beth's

for a

latter-

ing words of encouragement. As she read the
commendatory words, she smiled at the thought
of having at least one talent to use in her
Master's service. Yes, Beth Woodburn of
Briarsfield would be famous after all. It was
no vain dream of her childhood.

Four weeks passed and Beth had finished her
preparations for returning to college in the fall.
In a few weeks she would be leaving May and
the dear old parsonage, but she would be glad
to be back at 'Varsity again. There came a day
of heavy rain, and she went out on an errand
of charity for May. When she returned, late in
the afternoon, she heard Mr. Perth talking to
someone in the study, but that was nothing un-
usual. The rain was just ceasing, and the sun
suddenly broke through the clouds, filling all the
west with glory. Beth went down into the
garden to drink in the beauty. Rugged clouds
stood out like hills of fire fringed with gold,
and the great sea of purple and crimson over-
head died away in tlie soft flush of the east,
while the wet foliage of the trees and gardens
shone like gold beneath the clouds. It was
glorious ! She had never seen anything like it
before. Look ! there were two clouds of flame
parting about the sunset like a gateway into the
beyond, and within all looked peaceful and

Hi

p.

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If

150

BETH W(J()Di)UHN.

golden. Somehow it made lier think of Marie.
Poor Marie ! Why had Chirence's love for her
been unreal ? Why could she not have lived
an<l they been happy together ? Love and suf-
ferin"- ! And what had love broujjht to her i
Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Per-
haps he was happiest of all. He seemed to have
forgotten. But she — ah, she could never forget !
Yet, " Even so. Father, for so it seemed good in
Thy sight." And she pulled a bunch of fall
flowers from the bush at her side, careless of
the rain-drops that shook on her bare head as
she touched the branches. She did not know
that she was being ol)served from the study
window.

" She is going to be a missionary, isn't she ? "
said the stranger who was talking to Mr. Perth.

" Yes ; she hasn't decided her field yet, but she
will make a grand one wherever she goes. She's
a noble girl ; I honor her."

" Yes, she is very noble," said the ntranger
slowly, as he looked at her. She would have
recognized his voice if she had been within
hearing, but she only pulled another spray of
blossoms, without heeding the sound of the
study door shutting and a step approaching her
on the gravelled walk.

" Beth."

li:

Farewell.

151

: Marie.

for her
.e lived
ind suf-
to lier {
D. Per-
to have
• forget !
good in

of fall
eless of
head as
)t know
} study

she ? "
Perth,
but she
She's

^ranger
have
Iwithin
>ray of
jof the
Ing her

" Arthur ! Wliy, I — I thouglit you were in
Montreal ! "

" So, I was. I just got there a few days
ago, but I turned around and came hack to-
day to scold you for getting your feet wet
standing there in tlie wet grass. I knew you
didn't know liow to take care of yourself."
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
" Didn't I always take care of you when you
were little ? "

" Yes, and a nice tyrant you were ! " she
said, laughing, when she had recovered from
her surprise, " always scolding and preaching
at me."

He seemed inclined to talk lightly at first,
and then grew suddenly silent as they went into
the drawing-room. Beth felt as though he were
regarding her with a sort of protecting air.
What did it mean ? What had brought him
here so suddenly ? She was growing embarrassed
at his silence, when she suddenly plunged into
conversation about Montreal, the Wesleyan
College, and other topics tliat were farthest
away from her present thought and interest.

" Beth," said Arthur suddenly, interrupting the
flow of her remarks in a gentle tone, " Beth,
why did you not tell me last summer that you
were going to be a missionary ? "

f

15^

BEtH WOODBUrN.

■ I, 1

1; :

She seemed startled for a moment, as lie
looked into her flushed face.

" Oh, I don't know. I — I meant to. I meant
to tell you that afternoon you came here before
you went away, but I didn't know you were
going so soon, and I didn't tell you somehow.
Who told you ? "

" Marie de Vere told me,' he said, gently.
" She wrote to me just a few hours before she
died ; but I didn't get the letter till yesterday.
She left it with Clarence, and he couldn't find me
at first."

They looked at each other a moment in silence,
and there was a tender smile in his eyes. Then
a sudden flush crimsoned her cheek. How much
did he know ? Had Marie told him that she —

" Beth, why did you not tell me before that
you were free — that you were not another's
promised wife ? " His voice was gentle, very
gentle. Her face drooped, and her hand trembled
as it lay on her black dress. He rose and bent
over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His
touch thrilled her, soothed her, but she dare not
raise her eyes.

"I — I— didn't know it mattered— that you
cared," she stammered.

"Didn't knov I cared!" he exclaimed; then,
in a softer tone, " Beth, did you think I had for-

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Farewell.

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t, as he

I meant
e before
ou were
)nieho\v.

gently,
fore slie
sterday.

find nie

I silence,
1. Then
w much
I she —
re that
lother's
e, very
embled
id bent
His
are not

it you

; then,
ad for-

gotten— that I could forget { I love you, Beth.
Can you ever love me enough to be my wife?"

She could not speak, but in her upturned face
he read her answer, and his lips touched her
brow reverently. Closer, closer to his Ijreast he
drew her. Soul open to soul, heart beating
against heart ! Tlu' old clock ticked in the
stillness, and the crimso:. glow of tlie sunset
was reflected on the parlor wall. Oh, what joy
was this suddenly breaking through the clouds
upon them ! Beth was the lirst to break tlie
silence.

" Oh, Arthur, I love you so ! I love you so I "
she said, twining her arms passionately about
his neck, as her tears fell upon his breast. It
was the long pent-up cry of her loving woman-
hood.

** But Arthur, why were you so cold and
strange that day we parted last sunmier ? "

" I thought you were another's intended wife.
I tried to hide my love from you." His voice
shook slightly as he answered.

One long, lingering look into each other's
eyes, and, with one thought, they knelt together
beside the old coucli and gave thanks to the
all-loving Father who had guided their paths
together.

That night Beth lay listening as the autumn

';■

154

BETU WOODHURN.

wiii'l shook tlie elin-tree over the root' and
drifted the clouds in dark masses across the
starry sky. But tlie winds niiglit ra^^e witli-
out — aye, the storms mi^lit beat down, if they
would, what did it matter ^ Arthur was near,
and the Divine presence was ben<ling over her
with its shieldin*^ love. " Oh, God, Thou art
i^^oodl" She was happy — oh, so happy! And
she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

'^riie autunni passed — such a (gloriously happy
autunni — and Christmas eve had come. The
snow lay white and cold on the fields and hills
about Briarsfield, but in the old church all was
warmth and lij'ht. A ^roup of villagers were
gathered inside, most of them from curiosity,
and before the altar Arthur and Beth were
standing side by side. Beth looked very beau-
tiful as she stood there in her white bridal
robes. The church was still, sacredly still,
but for the sound of Mr. Perth's earnest voice ;
and in the rear of the crowd was one face,
deadly pale, but calm. It was Clarence. How
pure she looked, he thought. Pure as the
lilies hanging in clusters above her head ! Was
she of the earth — clay, like these others about
her ? The very tone of her voice seemed to
have caught a note from above. No, he had
never been worthy of her ! Weak, fickle, wave-

FAREWELF.

00

Dot' and
'OSS the
•e witli-
if they
as near,
)ver lier
hou art
And

T

e. The

^nd hills

I all was

prs were

ariosity,

1 were

y beau-

bridal

y still,

i voice ;

le face,

How

as the

Was

s about

med to

he had

, wave-

tossed soul that ho was ! A lo(»k of humiliation
crossed his face, then a look of hop<\ If he had
never been worthy of hei- han<l he would be
worthy at least to have loved her in vain. He
would be what she would have had him be. It
was over: the last woi'ds were said: tlui music
broke forth, and the little j;"old band o-leamed
on Beth's fair hand as it lay on Arthur's arm.
He led her down the aish;, smilin<^ an<l happy.
Oh, joy! joy everlastin<^ ! joy linkino- earth to
heaven ! They rested that ni^ht in IVth's old
room at the parsonaj^'e, and as the door closed
behind them they knelt tooether — man and
wife. Sacred hour \

Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas
eve was one who saw the light shine from their
window as he passed and blessed them. He
carried a bunch of lilies in his hand as he made
his way to a lon<jj white mound in the church-
yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them
in the snow, the pure white snow — j)ure as the
dead whose <j^rave it covered ! ])ure as the vows
he had heard breathed that night !

Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning
back in a rocker by the window, in the soft
bright moonliofht of Palestine. And what have

15G

IJETU WOODIJUllN'.

Ha!,

J, ..

the years brouolit to Pxitli ? Slic is famous now.
Hor novels a)'e anion<^ the most successFul of tlie
(lay. Slu; has marked out a new line of work,
and the dark-t^yed Jewish characters in her
stories have hroadened the symp.athies of he-r
world of readers. Hut the years have brou<»ht
her somethintr besides literary fame and success
in the mission-field. By her side is a little white
cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleej)
upon the pillow, one hand thrown back over his
dark curls — her little Arthur.

There is a step beside her, and her husband
bends over her with a loving look.

" It is seven years to-ni<^ht since we were
married, Beth."

There are tears in her smilinj]^ eyes as she
looks up into his face.

" And you have never rejijretted ? ' he asks.

" Oh, Arthur ! How could I ? " and she hides
her face on his breast.

" My wife ! my joy !" he whispers, as he draws
her closer.

" Arthur, do you remember wdiat a silly, silly
girl I used to be when I thouoht you had not
enough of the artist-soul to understand my
nature ? And here, if I hadn't had you to
criticise and encourage me, I'd never ha\'e suc-
ceeded as well as I have."

l< i '

FAREWELL.

I.i7

Ho only kisses her Tor n'|)ly, and they look
out over the Hat-roofcMl citv in tin; moonlicfht.
Peace ! peace ! sweet p(;ace I " Not as the world
f^ivcth, give I unto you." And the stars are
shining down upon them in their love. And so,
dear Hetli, farewell !

The evening shadows lenixthen as T write, but

Oil '

there is another to whom we nnist hid farewell.
Tt is Clarence. Father and mother are both
dead, and in one of the (]uiet parts of Toronto
he lives, unmarried, in his comfortable rooms.
'J'he years have brought him a greater measure
of success than once he had hoped. The sorrow
he has so bravely hidden has perhaps enabled
him to touch some chord in th(; human hearts
of liis readers. At any rate, he has a good
round income now. Edith's children come
often to twine their arms about his neck ; but
there are other children who love him, too.
Down in the dark, narrow streets of the city
there is many a bare, desolate home that he has
cheered with warmth and comfort, many a
humble fireside where the little ones listen for
his step, many little hands and feet protected
from the cold by his benefactions. But no
matter how lowly the house, he always leaves
behind some trace of his artistic nature — a
picture or a bunch of flowers, something sug-

r

I'i'

158

UETH WOODIIURN.

gestive of the beautiful, tlit; ideal. Soiiiotimes,
when the little ones |)layin<( about him lisp
their childish praises, a softness fills his eyes
and he thinks of one who is far away. Blessed
be her footsteps ! But he is not sad long. No,
he is the genial, jolly bachelor, whom everybody
loves, so unlike the ('larence of long ago ; and
so farewell, brave heart — fare thee well !

\'( ',

omotimes,

him lisp

his eyes

Blcsserl

^n^. No,

vorybody

i^^o ; and

1!